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HARRY    MUIR 


A   STORY   OF    SCOTTISH    LIFE 


THE  AUTHOR 

OF    "MRS.    MARGARET    MAITLAND,"    "  MEKKLAND,"    ETC. 


THREE    VOLUMES   IN    ONE. 


NEW- YORK  : 
D.  APPLETON  &  COxMPANY,  200  BROADWAY. 

1853. 


HARRY    MUIR 


ti 


CHAPTER  I 

"  Housekeeping  youth  have  over  homely  wits." 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona. 

"  And  this  is  the  pillar  that  Rob  Roy  hid  behind,  the  Sab- 
bath day  that  he  warned  the  young  English  gentleman  in  the 
kirk.  It's  the  very  place  itsel.  Here  was  the  pulpit — and 
the  seats  were  a'  here,  and  this  is  the  pillar  that  hid  Rob 
Roy." 

A  party  of  young  men  were  in  the  crypt  of  Glasgow  cathe- 
dral— the  little  sleek,  humble-looking  man,  who  very  unobtru- 
sively acted  as  Cicerone,  was  pointing  out  to  them  the  nota- 
bility, with  these  words. 

One  of  the  visitors  turned  away  with  a  grave  smile,  and 
leaving  his  companions,  began  to  wander  slowly  down  one  of 
the  long  black  aisles.  The  dim  withdrawing  vistas — the  pil- 
lars with  their  floral  chaplets — the  singular  grace  and  majesty 
of  those  dark  and  ponderous  arches — impressed  him  with  very 
different  associations.  The  young  man's  smile,  slightly  scorn- 
ful at  first,  melted  as  he  reached  the  lower  end,  and  looking 
up  through  this  grand  avenue,  saw  the  little  knot  of  dim 
figures  in  the  distance.  He  was  glad  to  escape  from  their 
laughter,  and  unsuitable  merriment.  These  noble  old  cloisters 
were  too  grave  and  solemn,  to  have  their  stillness  so  invaded. 

But  he  was  not  suffered  long  to  remain  uninterrupted  in 
his  contemplative  mood.  "What  ails  Cuthbert  ?  "  said  one 
of  the  younger  of  the  party,  a  lad  in  the  transition  state  be- 


^ 


HARRY    MUIR. 


tween  boy  and  man.  "  See  to  him  down  yonder  at  the  very 
end,  like  a  craw  in  the  mist — I  say,  Cuthbert !  " 

As  the  piping  shrill  voice  called  out  his  name  at  its  high- 
est pitch,  the  young  man  began  slowly  to  advance  again.  The 
lad  came  forward  to  meet  him.  "  What  are  you  smiling  at — 
what  did  you  go  away  for  ?  ", 

"  I  was  smiling  at  myself,  John,"  answered  the  accused. 

John  was  curious.     "  What  for  ?  " 

"  For  thinking  there  were  things  more  interesting  here, 
than  the  pillar  that  hid  Rob  Roy.  Come  along — never  mind. 
Where  are  they  all  bound  for,  now? " 

They  were  bound  for  a  very  dissimilar  place — no  other 
than  the  crowded  Broomielaw,  where  John's  brothers  were 
bent  upon  showing  their  Edinburgh  cousin,  Cuthbert  Charteris, 
and  an  English  stranger  who  accompanied  them,  one  or  two 
fine  ships  belonging  to  "  the  house  "  then  in  port.  These 
young  men  were  the  sons  of  a  prosperous  merchant,  all  of 
them  already  in  harness  in  the  office,  and  beginning  to  make 
private  ventures  on  their  own  behalf.  There  were  three  of 
them — Richard,  Alick,  and  John  Buchanan ;  the  two  elder 
had  reached  the  full  dignity  of  young  manhood,  and  rejoiced 
in  mighty  whiskers,  which  John,  poor  fellow,  could  only  covet 
intensely,  and  cultivate  with  all  his  might ;  but  even  John 
had  begun  to  have  the  shrewd  man  of  business  engrafted  on 
the  boy,  and  was  sometimes  precociously  calculating,  and  com- 
mercial— sometimes  disagreeably  swaggering  and  loud — 
though  not  unfrequently  simple,  foolish,  and  generous,  as  better 
became  his  years. 

"  I  say,  Cuthbert,"  said  the  communicative  John,  as  he 
swung  his  arm  through  his  grave  cousin's,  and  followed  his 
gay  brothers  on  the  way  to  the  river,  "  did  you  ever  see  Harry 
Muir  1  Dick  says  he's  going  to  make  him  come  and  dine  with 
us  to-night." 

"  And  who  is  Harry  Muir  ?  "     asked  Charteris. 

"  Oh,  he's  nobody — only  a  clerk  in  the  office  you  know — 
but  you  never  saw  such  a  clever  chap.  He  can  sing  anything 
you  like.  He's  a  grand  singer.  And  when  Harry's  in  a  good 
humour,  you  should  just  hear  him  with  the  fellows  in  the 
office.  My  father  looks  out  of  his  own  room  sometimes  to  see 
what's  the  row,  and  there's  Gilchrist  sucking  his  pen,  and 
Macauley  and  Alick  close  down  over  their  books,  writing  for  a 
race,  and  Muir  quite  cool,  and  looking  as  innocent  as  can  be. 
You  should  just  see  them,  and  see  how  puzzled  my  father  is, 
when  he  finds  that  there's  no  row  at  all '  " 


HARRY    MUIK.  5 

'•  And  in  such  emergencies,  how  do  you  behave  yourself, 
Johnnie?"  "  ^  ' 

'•  Johnnie  !  I  wish  you'd  just  mind  that  I'm  not  a  boy 
now." 

"  Jack,  then  !  Will  that  please  you,  young  man,"  said 
Charteris,  smiling. 

"  Me  ?  I  behave  the  best  way  I  can,"  said  the  mollified 
John.  '•  The  best  plan  is,  to  set  to  working,  and  never  let  on 
that  you  hear  the  door  open  ;  but  we  like  to  get  him  among  a 
lot  of  us  when  there's  nobody  in  the  way  ;  and  you'll  just  see 
to-night,  Cuthbert,  what  a  grand  fellow  he  is  for  fun." 

Cuthbert  did  not  look  very  much  delighted.  "  And  when 
is  this  famous  dinner  to  be?"  he  asked.  "  Is  Dick  to  entertain 
us  at  home  ?  " 

Master  John  burst  into  a  great  laugh.  "  Man,  Cuthbert, 
what  a  simple  fellow  you  are  !  You  don't  think  my  mother 
would  ask  Harry  Muir  to  dine." 

'•  And  why  not,  my  boy  ?  "  asked  the  Edinburgh  advocate. 

"  Why  not  !  Man,  is  that  the  way  you  do  in  the  east 
country  ?  He's  only  a  clerk,  and  everybody  knows  you  Edin- 
burgh folk  are  as  proud  as  proud  can  be.  Would  you  ask 
your  clerk  to  dine  with  you  ?  " 

'•  I  don't  possess  such  an  appendage.  Sir  John,"  said  the 
briefless  barrister,  *'  except  it  be  a  little  scrubby  boy  like  what 
you  were  the  last  time  I  was  west  here — and  he  certainly 
would  need  some  brushing  up.  So  he's  not  a  gentleman,  this 
wit  of  yours  ?  He  would  not  be  presentable  in  the  drawing- 
room  ?  " 

"  Hum  !  I  don't  know,"  said  honest  John,  hesitating. 
'•  He  looks  quite  as  well  as  Dick  or  Alick,  or  that  Liverpool 
man  there."  The  lad  drew  himself  up  and  arranged  his  neck- 
cloth complacently.  ''  There's  handsomer  men,  to  be  sure  ; 
but  I  think  Muir's  better  looking  than  any  of  you,  Cuthbert." 

Charteris  laughed  :  "  Is  he  not  well-bred,  then  ?  " 

'•  Oh  yes,  he  can  behave  himself  well  enough.  He's  got  a 
way  of  his  own,  you  know;  but  then  he's  a  clerk." 

"  And  so  are  you,  Jack,  my  man,"  said  Charteris. 

'•  Oh  yes,  but  there's  a  difference.  He's  got  no  money — 
and  more  than  that,"  said  the  juvenile  merchant,  '•  he's  got  no 
enterprise.  Cuthbert.  There's  Alick,  he  had  a  share  in  a  plan, 
sending  out  a  lot  of  things  to  San  Francisco  on  a  venture,  just 
when  the  news  came  abnit  the  gold,  you  know,  and  he  cleared 
a  hundred  pounds  :  that's  the  wav  to  do.     But  then,  that  fel- 


6  HARRY    MUIR. 

low  Muir,  he  never  tries  a  thing;  and  worse  than  that,  he 
went  away  and  married  somebody  last  year,  and  he  had  three 
sisters  before,  and  them  all  living  with  him.  Just  think  of 
that.  Four  women  all  dragging  a  young  man  down  when  he 
might  be  rising  in  the  world.     Isn't  it  awful?  " 

'•  A  very  serious  burden,"  said  Charteris,  smiling,  "  but 
what  is  his  salary,  John  ?  " 

'•  His  salary's  sixty  pounds ;  my  father  gives  very  good 
salaries.  He's  just  a  clerk,  you  know.  The  cashier  has  two 
hundred." 

'•  Sixty  pounds  !  and  five  people  live  on  sixty  pounds  !  " 
said  the  lawyer. 

"  And  they've  got  a  baby,"  said  John^  solemnly. 

It  was  the  climax ;  there  was  no  more  said. 

The  respectable  firm  of  George  Buchanan  and  Sons  had 
its  office  in  a  dingy  business  street  near  the  Exchange.  The 
early  darkness  of  the  February  night  had  almost  blotted  out 
the  high  sombre  houses  opposite,  except  for  the  gleaming  gas- 
light streaming  from  office  windows  in  irregular  patches  from 
garret  to  basement.  It  was  not  a  very  busy  time,  and  at  five 
o'clock  the  clerks  were  preparing  to  leave  the  office. 

"  I  say,  Muir,"  cried  Richard  Buchanan,  bursting  in  hastily, 
'•  come  and  dine  with  us." 

Charteris  was  behind.  The  famous  Harry  Muir  was  cer- 
tainly handsome — very  much  better  looking  than  any  other  of 
the  party,  and  had  a  fine,  sparkling,  joyous,  intelligent  face — 
but  the  lines  of  it  had  everything  in  them  but  firmness. 

"  Not  to-night,"  said  the  clerk,  "  you  must  not  ask  me  to- 
night. " 

"  Why  not  to-night  ?  "  said  the  young  master.  "  Come 
along  now,  Harry.  Do  be  a  good  fellow.  Why  it's  just  to-night 
of  all  nights  that  we  want  you.  There's  my  cousin  Charteris, 
and  there's  an  Englishman  ;  and  we're  all  as  flat  as  the  Clyde. 
Come  along,  Muir,  don't  disoblige  us." 

"  I  am  very  sorry,"  said  Muir,  "  but  I  can't  stay  in  town 
to-night.  Let  me  off  to-night ;  I  will  be  more  obedient  next 
time." 

"  He  wants  to  get  home  to  nurse  his  wife,"  said  Buchanan, 
with  a  sneer. 

"  My  wife  is  quite  well,"  answered  Harry,  with  a  quick 
flush  of  anger  ;  "  she  does  not  need  my  nursing,  Mr.  Bu- 
chanan," 

"  Mr.  Buchanan  !  don't  be  ill-natured,  Harry — come  along," 


HARRY    MUIR.  7 

"  No,  no  ;  I  cannot  go  to-night.  I  don't  think  I  can  stay 
to-night,"  said  the  brilliant  facile  clerk. 

The  entreaties  continued  a  little  longer ;  the  resistance 
became  feebler  and  more  feeble,  and  at  last,  stipulating  that 
he  was  to  leave  them  early,  the  genius  of  the  counting-house 
consented. 

'•  Harry,  my  man,  send  a  message  to  your  wife,"  said  a 
grave  snuffy  person,  who  enjoyed  the  two  hundred  pounds  a 
year  of  which  John  had  boasted,  and  was  cashier  to  the 
Messrs.  Buchanan.  « 

Harry  wavered  a  moment.     "  Where  is  the  boy?  " 

"  Perhaps  she'll  come  for  you,  Harry,"  suggested  the  ma- 
licious Buchanan. 

The  poor  clerk  threw  down,  angrily,  the  pen  he  had  taken 
up,  and  lifted  his  hat.  In  another  minute,  with  quickly  re- 
covered gaiety,  they  went  out  in  a  band  to  the  adjacent  square 
where  they  were  to  dine. 

"  There's  the  makings  of  a  capital  man  in  that  lad,  and 
there's  the  makings  of  a  blackguard,"  said  the  grave  Mr.  Gil- 
christ, shaking  his  head  ruefully,  and  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff; 
'-  it'll  be  a  hard  race — which  of  them  will  win  ?  " 

The  dinner  in  George's-square  went  off  very  well,  and  the 
young  clerk,  as  he  warmed,  dazzled  the  little  company  ;  he 
was  only  a  clerk — they  were  inclined  to  patronize  him  at  other 
times — but  now  the  unmistakable,  undesired  pre-eminence, 
which  these  young  men  yielded  to  their  poor  companion,  was 
a  noticeable  thing.  The  matter  of  ambition  now,  was,  who 
should  seem  most  intimate  with — who  should  most  attract  the 
attention  of  the  brilliant  clerk. 

Cuthbert  Charteris  was  a  more  completely  educated  man 
than  any  other  of  the  party.  The  thorough  literary  training 
will  not  ally  itself  to  the  commercial,  as  it  seems.  None  of 
the  young  merchants  had  time  for  the  long  discipline  and  ath- 
letic mental  exercises  of  the  student.  They  were  all  making 
money  before  they  should  have  been  well  emancipated  from  the 
school-room — all  independent  men,  when  they  should  have  been 
boys — and  the  contrast  was  marked  enough.  There  was  a 
good  deal  of  boisterousuess  in  their  enjoyment,  and  they  were 
enjoying  themselves  heartily,  while  Cuthbert,  getting  very 
weary,  felt  himself  only  preserved  from  utter  impatience  of 
their  mirth  by  the  interest  with  which  the  stranger  inspired 
him — this  poor,  clever,  facile  Harry  Muir. 

The  quick  mind  of  this  young  man  seemed  to  have  attained 


8  HARRY    MUIR. 

somehow  to  the  results  of  education  without  the  training  and 
discipline  which  form  so  principal  a  part  of  it.  He  seemed  to 
have  been  a  desultory  reader,  a  devourer  of  everything  which 
came  in  his  way,  and  while  the  Buchanans  knew  few  books  .be- 
yond the  serial  literature  of  the  time,  Harry  threw  delicate  allu- 
sions about  him,  which,  it  seemed  he  made  only  for  his  own  enjoy- 
ment, since  the  arrows  flew  most  innocently  over  the  heads  of 
all  the  rest.  Threads  of  connection  with  those  great  thoughts 
which  form  the  common  country  of  imaginative  minds,  ideas 
radiating  out  from  the  centre  of  these,  like  the  lessening  cir- 
cles in  the  water — the  student  Cuthbert  heard  and  understood, 
and  wondered — the  Buchanans  applauded,  and  did  not  under- 
stand. 

One  of  them  at  last  proposed  to  go  to  the  theatre — the 
rest  chimed  in  eagerly.  Cuthbert,  anxious  to  have  the  even- 
ing concluded  as  soon  as  possible,  and  resolving  to  seek  no 
more  of  the  delectable  society  of  his  young  cousins  except  at 
home,  where  they  were  tolerable,  remonstrated  only  to  be 
laughed  at  and  overpowered.  The  grown-up,  mature,  educated 
man  resigned  himself  to  their  boyish  guidance  very  wearily — 
and  what  would  their  wit  do  now  ? 

He  said  he  would  go  home — he  took  up  his  hat,  and  played 
hesitatingly  with  his  gloves.  He  was  excited  with  the  com- 
pany, the  applause,  and  a  little  with  the  wine,  and  was  per- 
mitting himself  to  parley  with  the  tempter. 

"  Come  along,  Muir,  it's  only  for  once ;  let  us  just  have 
this  one  night." 

''  No,  no."  The  noes  grew  faint ;  the  hesitation  increased. 
He  consented  again. 

And  so,  louder  and  more  boisterous  than  before,  they 
again  entered  the  busy  streets.  John  Buchanan  was  a  good 
deal  inclined  to  be  obstreperous.  It  was  all  that  Cuthbert 
could  manage  to  keep  him  within  bounds. 

They  had  reached  the  Trongate,  and  Cuthbert  stopped  his 
3^oung  companion  a  moment  to  look  down  the  long  gleaming 
line  of  the  crowded  street.  It  had  been  wet  in  the  morning, 
and  the  brilliant  light  from  the  shop  windows  glistened  in  the 
wet  causeway  in  long  lines,  and  the  shifting  groups  of  passen- 
gers went  and  came,  ceaselessly,  and  the  hum  and  din  of  the 
great  thoroughfare  was  softened  by  the  gloom  and  brightened 
by  the  light  of  traflSc  that  illuminated  all. 

'•  What  are  you  looking  at  ?  See  they're  all  away  across 
the  street.     What's  the  good  of  glowering  down  the  Trongate? 


HARRY    MUIR. 


Man,  Cuthbert,  how  slow  you  are,"  said  John  Buchanan, 
dragging  the  loiterer  on. 

There  was  a  crowd  on  the  opposite  side  which  had  ab- 
sorbed the  others.      Cuthbert  and  John  crossed  over. 

The  accident  which  attracted  the  crowd  was  a  very  com- 
mon one — an  overtasked  horse,  wearied  with  the  long  day's 
labour,  had  stumbled  and  fallen  ;  and  now,  the  weight  of  the 
cart  to  which  it  was  attached  having  been  removed,  was  mak- 
ing convulsive  plunges  in  the  effort  to  rise.  The  carters,  and 
the  kindred  class  who  are  always  to  be  found  ready  in  such 
small  emergencies,  were  leaping  aside  themselves,  and  pressing 
back  the  lookers  on,  as  the  poor  animal  struck  out  his  great 
weary  limbs,  endeavouring  to  raise  himself  from  the  ground. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  shrill  cry — "  The  wean — look  at  the 
wean  ;  the  brute's  fit'U  kill  the  wean." 

John  Buchanan  had  pushed  his  way  into  the  crowd,  drag- 
ging with  him  the  reluctant  Cuthbert — and  there  indeed,  close 
to  the  great  hoofs  of  the  prostrate  animal,  stood  one  of  those 
little  pale,  careworn,  withered  children  whom  one  sees  only  in 
the  streets  of  great  cities,  and  oftenest  only  at  this  unwhole- 
some hour  of  night.  But  the  acuteness  peculiar  to  the  class 
seemed  to  have  forsaken  the  very  little  wrinkled  old  man  of 
the  Trongate.  He  was  standing  where  the  next  plunge  would 
inevitably  throw  him  down,  with  the  strange  scared  look  which 
is  not  fear,  common  to  children  in  great  peril,  upon  his  small 
white  puckered  face.  Again  the  panting  horse  threw  out  his 
hoofs  in  another  convulsive  exertion.     The  child  was  down. 

A  shadow  shot  across  the  light.  There  were  several  cries 
of  women.  The  child  was  thrown  into  somebody's  arms  unin- 
jured. The  horse  was  on  his  feet,  and  a  man,  indistinctly 
seen  in  the  midst  of  the  eager  crowd,  struggled  ineffectually 
to  raise  himself  from  the  ground,  where  he  had  fallen. 

'•  I  am  hurt  a  little,"  said  the  voice  of  Harry  Muir. 
'•  Never  mind,  it  is  not  much,  I  dare  say.  Some  of  you  help 
me  up." 

There  was  a  rush  to  assist  him  ;  a  burst  of  eager  inqui- 
ries. 

'■  I  got  a  blow  from  the  hoof;  ah  !  I  can't  tell  what  it  is," 
gasped  the  young  man,  over  whose  face  the  pallor  of  deadly 
sickness  was  stealing.  He  could  not  stand.  They  carried 
him — these  rough  strong  men,  so  gently — with  his  friends 
crowding  about  him,  to  the  nearest  surgeon's.  Everybody 
was  sympathetic  :  every  one  interested.  But  Harry  Muir's 
1* 


10  HARRY    MUIR. 

head   had  sunk  upon  his  breast,  and  the  light  had  gone  from 
his  eyes.     He  was  conscious  of  nothing  but  pain. 

The  accident  was  a  serious  one ;  his  leg  was  broken. 


CHAPTER   II. 


■  He  sent  me  hither,  stranger  that  I  am, 
To  tell  this  story." 

As   YOU   LIKE   IT. 


"  CuTHBERT,"  said  Richard  Buchanan,  '•  do,  like  a  good  fellow, 
go  and  tell  his  wife." 

"  Do  you  not  see.  man,  that  a  stranger  would  alarm  her 
more?  Why  make  me  the  messenger ?  You  say  she  knows 
you,  Dick." 

"Ay,  she  knows  him,"  said  the  second  brother,  "but  she 
does  not  know  him  for  any  good.  You  see,  Cuthbert,  Dick's 
always  enticing  poor  Muir  away — as  he  did  to-night — and  the 
wife  wouldn't  flatter  him  if  he  went  up  now." 

'- 1  don't  care  a  straw  for  the  wife,"  said  Richard  angrily. 
•"  It's  yon  grim  sister  Martha,  and  that  white-faced  monkey  of 
a  girl.  I  say,  Cuthbert — ^you  needn't  go  in,  and  they  don't 
know  you — do  go  before  and  tell  them  he's  coming.  I'll  come 
up  with  him  myself  in  the  noddy — ^just  to  oblige  me,  Cuth- 
bert, will  you  go  ?" 

"  He  lives  in  Port  Dundas-road,  it's  not  very  far.  John 
will  show  you  where  it  is,"  urged  Alick. 

Cuthbert  consented  to  go ;  and  the  obstreperous  John  was 
very  much  subdued,  and  very  ready  to  accompany  his  cousin 
to  poor  Muir's  house.  It  was  now  nearly  ten  o'clock.  The 
young  men  were  all  greatly  concerned,  and  in  an  inner  room 
poor  Harry  was  getting  his  leg  examined,  and  looking  so 
deadly  sick  and  pale  as  to  alarm  both  surgeon  and  friends.  It 
was  his  temperament,  so  finely  organized,  as  to  feel  either 
pain  or  pleasure  far  more  exquisitely  than  is  the  common  lot. 

"  What  will  you  say  to  them?  Man,  Cuthbert,  are  you 
not  feared?"  asked  John. 

"  Why  should  I  be  feared  ?  I  am  very  sorry  for  her,  poor 
woman — but  is  she  such  a  fury,  this  wife  ?  " 

•'  It's  not  the  wife,  it's  his  eldest  sister.     Dick  went  home 


HARRY    MUIR.  11 

with  Muir  one  night  when  he  was'nt  quite  able  to  take  care  of 
himself,  and  I  can  tell  you  Dick  was  feared." 

'•  Dick  was  to  blame — I  do  not  feel  that  I  am,"  said  Char- 
teris  ;  "  but  why  was  he  afraid  ? — did  she  say  much  to  him  ?  " 

"  She  didn't  say  anything  to  him  ;  but  you  know  they  say 
she's  awful  passionate,  and  she's  a  great  deal  older  than 
Harry  ;  and  she's  just  been  like  his  mother.  They're  al- 
ways so  strict,  these  old  maids — and  Miss  Muir's  an  old  maid." 

"  Wait,  then,  till  I  see,  John,"  said  Cuthbert ;  "  don't  try 
to  intimidate  me." 

'•  Yonder's  the  house,"  said  John. 

They  had  just  passed  a  great  quarry,  across  which  the 
dome  of  some  large  building  loomed  dark  against  the  sky. 
Then  there  was  a  field  raised  high  above  the  road,  with  green 
grass  waving  over  the  copestone  of  a  high  wall,  and  at  the 
end  of  the  field  stood  a  solitary  house.  A  house  of  some  pre- 
tensions, for  it  boasted  its  street-door,  and  was  "  self-con- 
tained ;"  and  albeit  the  ground-floor  on  either  side  was  occu- 
pied by  two  not  very  ambitious  shops,  the  upper  flat  looked 
substantial  and  respectable,  although  decayed. 

They  were  on  the  opposite  side — the  street  was  very  quiet, 
and  their  steps  and  voices  echoed  through  it,  so  clearly  that 
the  loud  John  sank  into  whispering  and  felt  himself  guilty. 
The  light  of  a  very  pale  moon  was  shining  into  one  of  the 
windows.  Looking  up,  Cuthbert  saw  some  one  watching  them 
— eagerly  pressing  against  the  dark  dull  panes ;  as  they 
crossed  the  street,  the  face  suddenly  disappeared. 

"That's  one  of  them,"  whispered  John.  "  Isn't  it  awful 
that  a  poor  fellow  can't  be  out  a  little  late,  but  these  women 
are  watching  for  him  that  way  ?  " 

Cuthbert  did  not  answer.  He  was  thinking  of  "  these 
women,"  and  their  watching,  rather  than  of  the  poor  fellow 
who  was  the  object  of  it. 

They  had  not  time  to  knock,  when  the  door  was  opened 
wide  to  them,  and  a  pale  girl's  face  looked  out  eagerly.  She 
shrank  back  at  once  with  a  look  of  blank  -disappointment 
which  touched  Cuthbert's  heart,  "  I — I  beg  your  pardon — I 
thought  it  was  my  brother." 

'•  Your  brother  will  be  here  very  soon.  He  has  done  a 
very  brave  thing  to-night,  and  has  had  a  slight  accident  in 
consequence.  I  beg  you  will  not  be  alarmed,"  said  Cuthbert 
hastily. 

•'  Oh  !  come  in,  sir,  come  in,"  said  the  young  sister.     '*  A 


12  HARRY    MUIR. 

very  brave  thing."     She  repeated  it  again  and  again,  under 
her  breath. 

"  There's  the  noddy,"  whispered  John,  as  he  lingered  be- 
hind. ''  I'll  wait  and  help  him  in." 

The  door  admitted  into  a  long  paved  passage,  terminating 
in  a  little  damp  "green."  John  Buchanan  remained  at  the 
door,  while  Cuthbert  followed  the  steps  of  his  eager  conductor, 
through  the  passage,  and  up  an  '■  outside  stair,"  into  the  house. 
She  seemed  very  eager,  and  only  looking  round  to  see  that  he 
followed  her,  ran  into  a  little  parlour. 

"  Harry  is  coming.  He  has  been  helping  somebody,  and 
has  hurt  himself,  Martha  ;  the  gentleman  will  tell  you,"  ex- 
claimed poor  Harry's  anxious  advocate,  placing  himself  beside 
the  chair  where  sat  a  tall  faded  woman,  sternly  composed  and 
quiet. 

"  Is  Harry  hurt  ?  "  cried  another  younger  and  prettier  per- 
son, who  occupied  the  seat  of  honour  by  the  fireside. 

"  He  has  done  a  very  brave  thing ;  "  Cuthbert  heard  it 
whispered  earnestly,  into  the  elder  sister's  ear. 

He  told  them  the  story.  The  little  wife  was  excited  and 
nervous — she  began  to  cry.  The  sister  Martha  sat  firmly  in 
her  chair,  her  stern  .face  moved  and  melting.  The  younger 
girl  stood  behind,  witTi  her  arm  round  her  sister,  and  her  bright 
tearful  face  turned  towards  Charteris.  "  Our  Harry — our  poor 
Harry  !  it  was  this  that  kept  him.  Martha — and  he  saved  the 
child." 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  Will  he  be  lame  ?  "  sobbed  the  little 
wife. 

The  grave  Martha  suddenly  rose  from  her  chair  as  the 
faint  sound  of  wheels  reached  them.  "  He  is  here.  Eose, 
make  the  room  ready  for  him,  poor  fellow.  Do  not  let  him 
see  you  crying,  Agnes.     Come  to  the  door  and  meet  him." 

They  went  away  hastily,  leaving  Charteris  still  in  the 
room.  Rose  vanished  by  another  door  into  an  inner  apart- 
ment. They  were  overmuch  excited  and  anxious  to  remember 
the  courtesy  due  to  a  stranger  ;  and  the  stranger,  for  his  part, 
was  too  much  interested  to  leave  them  until  he  had  seen  how 
the  sufferer  bore  his  removal. 

'•  Rose,"  said  a  very  small  voice,  "has  Harry  come  home? 
— Rose  !  "  Charteris  looked  round  him  a  good  deal  puzzled 
for  there  was  no  visible  owner  of  the  little  voice.  There  cer- 
tainly was  a  cradle  in  a  corner,  but  nothing  able  to  speak  could 
inhabit  that. 


HARRY    MUIR.  13 

"  Rose !  " 

There  was  no  answer.  Then  there  followed  a  faint  rust- 
ling, and  then  a  third  door  opened,  and  a  little  head  in  a  white 
nightcap,  looked  out  with  a  pair  of  bewildered  dark  eyes,  and 
suddenly  shrank  in  again,  when  i't  found  the  room  in  posses- 
sion of  a  stranger.  The  stranger  smiled  at  his  own  somewhat 
strange  position,  and  began  to  move  towards  the  door — but 
suddenly  the  cradle  gave  sound  of  life,  and  a  lusty  baby  voice  be- 
gan to  cry.  They  were  carrying  the  baby's  father  then,  into 
the  house.      The  good-humoured  Cuthbert  rocked  the  cradle. 

Poor  Harry  was  still  very  pale,  though  the  surgeon  who 
accompanied  him  was  as  tender  of  him  as  the  most  delicate 
nurse,  and  the  strong  young  arms  of  the  Buchanans  carried 
the  patient  like  a  child.  They  made  their  escape  immediate- 
ly, however, — but  divided  between  sympathy  for  the  family, 
and  a  consciousness  of  his  own  somewhat  ridiculous  position, 
Cuthbert  stood  at  his  post,  rocking  the  refractory  cradle. 
They  all  passed  into  the  inner  apartment.  He  was  alone 
again. 

It  was  a  very  plain  parlour,  and  various  articles  of  femi- 
nine work  were  scattered  about  the  room  :  some  small  garment 
for  the  sleeping  baby  lay  on  the  ground,  where  it  had  fallen 
from  the  young  mother's  hand  ;  on  the  table,  where  Martha 
had  been  sitting,  was  a  piece  of  fine  embroidery,  stretched  on 
two  small  hoops  which  fitted  closely  into  each  other.  She  had 
been  engaged  in  filling  up  the  buds  and  blossoms  of  those  em- 
broidered flowers  with  a  species  of  fine  needlework,  peculiar  to 
Glasgow  and  its  dependent  provinces.  Another  hoop,  and 
another  piece  of  delicate  work,  remained  where  Rose  had  left 
it.     The  sisters  of  the  poor  clerk  maintained  themselves  so. 

The  baby  voice  had  ceased.  Groans  of  low  pain  were 
coming  from  the  inner  room.  Cuthbert  felt  that  he  did  wrong 
to  wait,  and  turned  again  towards  the  door — but  just  then 
Miss  Muir  entered  the  parlour. 

"  The  doctor  thinks  he  will  do  well,"  said  Martha.  "  To- 
night I  can  hardly  thank  you.  But  he  is  everything  to  us 
all — poor  Harry  ! — and  to-night  you  will  excuse  us.  We 
can  think  of  nothing  but  himself  Come  again,  and  let  us 
thank  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  come  in  the  morning,"  said  Cuthbert,  "  not  to  be 
thanked,  but  to  hear  how  he  is.     Good  night." 

She  went  with  him  to  the  door,  gravely  and  calmly  :  when 
she  had  shut  it  upon  him,  she  stood  still,  alone  in  the  dark,  to 


14  HARRY    MUIR. 

press  her  hands  against  her  heart.  Again — again  ! — so  long 
she  had  hoped  that  this  facile  temper  would  be  steadied,  that 
this  poor  brilliant  wandering  star  would  be  jBxed  in  his  proper 
orbit.  So  often,  so  drearily,  as  her  hopes  had  sunk  into  that 
blank  of  pain.  Poor  Harry  !  it  was  all  they  could  say  of  him. 
When  others  praised  the  gay  wit,  the  happy  temper,  the  quick 
intelligence,  those  to  whom  he  was  dearest,  could  only  say. 
poor  Harry  !  for  the  good  and  pleasant  gifts  he  had,  made  the 
bitterness  of  their  grief  only  the  deeper.  Their  pride  in  him 
aggravated  their  shame.  Darkest  and  saddest  of  all  domestic 
calamities  these  women,  to  whom  he  was  so  very  dear,  could 
not  trust  the  man  in  whom  all  their  hopes  and  wishes  centred. 
He  had  not  lost  their  affection — it  seemed  only  the  more 
surely  to  yearn  over  and  cling  to  him,  for  his  faults — but  he 
had  lost  their  confidence. 

They  could  not  believe  him:  they  could  not  rely  upon 
word  or  resolution  of  his.  When  Harry  was  an  hour  later 
than  his  usual  time  of  home-coming,  Martha  grew  rigid  in  her 
chair,  her  strong  heart  beating  so  loud  that  almost  she  could 
not  hear  those  footsteps  in  the  street  for  which  she  watched 
with  silent  eagerness  ;  and  the  work  fell  from  the  hands  of  the 
young  wife,  and  Rose  stole  away,  pale  and  agitated,  into  the 
inner  room,  to  watch  at  the  window  in  the  darkness  ;  and  even 
the  little  sister — the  child — was  moved  with  the  indefinite 
dread  and  melancholy  which  is  the  grief  of  childhood.  There 
were  many  grave  people  who  would  have  smiled  at  poor 
Harry's  sins,  and  counted  them  light  and  venial,  but  so  did  not 
these. 

To  lose  confidence  in  those  who  are  most  dear  to  us,  to  be 
able  no  longer  to  trust  word  or  vow — it  is  the  climax  of  wo- 
manish misery, — a  calamity  terrible  to  bear  ! 

And  Martha  Muir,  under  this  discipline,  was  growing  old. 
Morning  after  morning  there  had  been  a  rebound  of  eager 
hope,  only  to  be  utterly  cast  down  when  the  night  fell.  She 
had  had  something  of  the  mother's  pride  in  him — had  trans- 
ferred to  Harry  the  natural  ambition,  the  eager  hopes  and 
wishes,  which  for  herself  had  all  faded  with  her  fading  prime 
— and  now,  she  who  had  so  strong  a  will,  so  resolute  a  mind, 
to  see  this  man  with  all  his  gifts,  and  the  free  scope  he  had  to 
exercise  them,  sinking,  falling,  tarnishing  with  mean  sins,  the 
lustre  and  glory  of  his  youth.  Poor  Harry  !  his  stern  sad 
sister  said  nothing  more  of  blame,  but  as  she  turned  again 
along  the  damp  passage,  and  up  the  stairs,  the  heart  within  her 


HARRY    MUIR.  16 

sunk  into  the  depths.  She  pressed  her  hands  upon  it.  Strange 
sympathy  between  the  frame  and  the  spirit,  which  makes  it  no 
image  to  say  that  there  is  a  weight  upon  the  heart ! 

'■  Martha,  has  Harry  come  home?"  said  the  little  sister, 
standing  in  her  white  night-dress  at  the  door  of  the  small  bed- 
closet  which  opened  from  their  parlour.  The  child's  eyes  were 
bright  and  wide  open,  as  if,  in  her  compulsory  solitude  in  tho 
closet,  she  had  been  steadily  fixing  them  to  keep  herself 
awake.  "  When  I  looked  out  I  saw  a  gentleman.  And  where's 
Rose  and  Agnes,  Martha  ?     Is  Harry  no  weel  ?  " 

'•  You  must  go  to  bed,  Violet,"  said  Martha.  "  Poor  Harry 
has  got  a  broken  leg.  He  was  in  the  Trongate  to-night  with 
the  Buchanans,  and  saved  a  child's  life — but  you  cannot  sec 
him  to-night,  the  doctor  is  with  him  just  now,  poor  fellow  ;  but 
go  to  bed,  you  shall  see  him  to-morrow." 

Little  Violet  began  to  cry,  and  the  dark  bewildered  wide 
open  eyes  looked  up  inquiringly  into  Martha's  face.  Violet 
knew  that  Harry  did  not  need  to  be  in  the  Trongate  with  the 
Buchanans,  and  that  they  all  waited  for  him  very  long  before 
they  would  take  their  humble  cup  of  tea. 

"  He  will  not  be  able  to  go  out  for  a  long  time,  Violet — 
and  he  saved  the  bairn's  life,"  said  Martha,  as  she  put  her  lit- 
tle sister  into  the  dark  closet  bed,  which  she  herself  and  Rose 
shared,  '•  and  you  must  not  cry — rather  be  thankful  that  the 
little  boy's  mother  has  not  lost  him,  Lettie,  and  ask  God  to 
bless  poor  Harry — poor  Harry  !  do  you  know  you  should 
always  think  of  him,  Violet,  when  you  pray  ?  " 

"  And  so  I  do.  Martha,"  said  little  Violet,  looking  up 
through  her  tears  as  she  clung  to  her  elder  sister,  the  only 
mother  she  had  ever  known. 

'•  Then  you  must  let  me  go  to  him  now,  poor  fellow,"  said 
Martha.  "  Hush  !  he  will  hear  you  crying — lie  still,  Lettie, 
and  fall  asleep." 

One  of  Violet's  tears  rested  on  Martha's  faded  cheek — 
other  tears  came  as  she  wiped  it  away.  "  Poor  bairn — poor 
bairn,"  said  the  elder  sister,  "  I  might  be  her  mother — and  so 
I  am." 

When  she  entered  the  sick-room,  the  surgeon  was  just  pre- 
paring to  leave  it.  He  had  set  the  broken  bone,  and  done  all 
that  could  be  done  to  give  his  patient  ease.  Harry,  greatly 
exhausted,  and  deadly  pale,  was  lying  quiet,  not  strong  enough 
to  express  even  his  suffering  by  more  than  a  faint  groan — and 
his  wife  and  Rose  watched  anxiously  beside  him.      But  Har- 


16  HARRY    MUIR. 

ry's  mind  was  very  much  at  ease,  and  tranquil.  His  accident 
covered  triumphantly  any  error  he  had  committed,  and  his 
anxious  attendants  were  tranquil  and  satisfied  too — for  who 
could  think  of  Harry's  fault  or  weakness,  when  Harry's  gener- 
ous bravery  had  brought  him  so  much  pain.  They  were  con- 
►tent  to  believe — and  they  did  believe,  poor  eager  loving  hearts  ! 
that  no  one  else  could  have  been  so  daring  ;  no  one  else  had 
so  little  thought  of  personal  safety — and  were  saying,  with  tears 
in  their  eyes,  what  a  providence  it  was  for  the  child  and  its 
mother,  that  "  our  Harry,"  and  no  other,  was  there  to  res- 
cue it. 

"  I  am  to  sit  up  with  him,  Martha,"  said  the  little  wife. 

"  But  there  is  the  baby,  Agnes,"  said  Rose  ;  "  you  must  let 
me  sit  up  with  Harry." 

"  You  must  go  away  both  of  you,  and  sleep,"  said  Martha. 
"  Hush,  speak  low  !  I  cannot  trust  any  of  you,  bairns — I  must 
watch  him  myself  No,  little  matron,  not  you.  I  must  take 
care  of  my  boy  myself — my  poor  Harry  !  " 

These  words  so  often  said — expressing  so  much  love,  so 
much  grief,  they  were  echoed  in  the  hearts  of  all. 

Poor  Harry  !  but  his  conscience  did  not  smite  him  to- 
night: only  his  heart  melted  into  tenderness  for  those  who 
were  so  very  tender  of  him,  and  involuntarily  there  came  into 
his  mind  gentle  thoughts  of  all  he  would  do  for  them,  when 
he  was  well  again  ;  for  Harry  never  feared  for  himself. 

They  left  his  wife  with  him  for  a  short  time,  and  returned 
to  the  fireside  of  the  little  parlour — it  was  Saturday  night, 
and  some  of  their  delicate  work  had  to  be  finished,  if  possible, 
before  the  twelve  o'clock  bell  should  begin  the  Sabbath  day. 

They  were  but  lodgers  in  this  house.  The  mistress  of  it, 
a  decayed  widow,  strong  in  her  ancient  gentility — had  three 
daughters,  who  maintained  themselves  and  an  idle  brother 
by  the  same  work  which  occupied  the  Muirs.  The  collars  and 
cufi"s  and  handkerchiefs  of  richer  women,  embroidered  by  other 
workers,  principally  in  Ayr  and  Ayrshire,  were  given  out  at 
warehouses  in  Glasgow,  to  the  Muirs  and  E-odgers,  and  mul- 
titudes of  other  such,  to  be  "  opened,"  as  they  called  it — which 
"  opening "  meant  filling  up  the  centre  of  the  embroidered 
flowers  with  delicate  open-work  in  a  variety  of  '•  stiches"  in- 
numerable. Very  expert,  and  very  industrious  workers  at  this 
could,  in  busy  times,  earn  as  much  as  ten  weekly  shillings — and 
thus  it  was  that  Martha  and  Rose  Muir  supported  themselves 
and  their  little  sister,  and  were  no  burdens  on  the  scanty 
means  of  Harry. 


HARRY    MUIR.  1*7 

"  Well,  Martha  ! ''  said  Rose,  breathlessly,  as  the  door  of 
the  inner  room  closed  upon  the  little  wife. 

Martha  could  not  lift  up  her  eyes  to  meet  her  sister's. 
"  Well,  my  dear  ?  " 

"  I  am  sure,"  said  Rose,  '•  I  am  sure,  you  are  quite  satis- 
fied to-night." 

•'  Surely,  surely,"  said  the  less  hopeful  sister — a  sigh  burst- 
ing, in  spite  of  her,  out  of  her  heavy  heart. 

"  Surely,  surely — what  do  you  mean,  Martha  ?  "  said  the 
dissatisfied  Rose.  "  Poor  Harry  !  you  are  surely  pleased  with 
him  to-night." 

"  I  said  so,  Rose,"  said  Martha.     "  Poor  Harry  !  " 

The  younger  sister  did  not  speak  for  a  moment — then  she 
put  her  work  away  and  covered  her  face  with  her  hands. 

'■  You  will  never  trust  him — you  will  never  trust  Harry, 
Martha  !  " 

Martha  sighed.     "  I  will  trust  God,  Rose." 

Rose  Muir  dried  her  eyes,  and  took  up  her  work  again — 
there  was  nothing  to  be  said  after  that. 

Martha  was  rocking  the  cradle  softly  with  her  foot;  and 
Martha,  mother-like,  was  fain  to  divert  the  younger  heart,  and 
make  it  lighter  than  her  own.  "  Our  poor  wee  Harry,"  she 
said  with  a  smile.  "  Did  you  see  what  a  strange  nurse  he  had 
to-night  ?  " 

'•  Was  it  the  gentleman  ?"  said  Rose  ;  "  did  you  say  any- 
thing to  him,  Martha — he  would  think  us  very  ungrateful." 

"  I  can  trust  the  person  who  rocks  our  cradle,"  said  Martha. 
"  He  is  coming  back  to-morrow  to  be  thanked." 

"  On  Sabbath-day  !  " 

'•  It  is  charity  to  come  to  Harry,"  said  Martha.  "  Poor 
Harry,  how  every  one  likes  him  !  " 

Their  eyes  were  becoming  wet  again— it  was  a  relief  to 
hear  a  quiet  knock  at  the  parlour  door. 

The  visitor  was  the  younger  Miss  Rodger — a  large,  soft, 
clumsy,  good-humoured  girl,  with  a  pleasant  comely  face.  She 
wore  a  broken-down  faded  gown,  which  had  once  been  very 
gay,  and  a  little  woollen  shawl,  put  on  unevenly,  over  her 
plump  shoulders,  and  her  hair  in  its  enclosure  of  curl-papers 
for  the  night ;  ends  of  thread  were  clinging  to  the  fringes  of 
the  shawl,  and  the  young  lady  was  tugging  it  over  her  shoul- 
ders, conscious  of  deficiencies  below  ;  but  the  good-humoured 
offer  to  "  take  the  wean,"  or  do  anything  that  might  be  needed, 
covered  the  eccentricities  of  Miss  Aggie's  general  house  dress 


18  HARRY    MUIR. 


and  appearance.     The  precious  child  was  not  entrusted  to  her, 
but  the  hoyden's  visit  enlivened  the  sisters,  and  immediately 
after,  they  finished  their  work,  and    Martha  saw  Rose   and 
Agnes  prepare  for  rest,  and  then  took  her  own  place  noiselessl 
by  her  brother's  bedside. 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  How  still  and  peaceful  is  the  Sabbath  morn  !— 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  room  to  breathe." 

Graham, 

Early  on  the  following  morning,  Cuthbert  Charteris,  after  a 
long  walk  from  his  uncle's  house,  presented  himself  at  Harry 
Muir's  door.  The  street  was  very  still  and  Sabbath-like. 
Some  young  workmen,  in  suits  of  snowy  moleskin,  stood 
grouped  about  the  corner  of  the  Cowcaddens,  enjoying  the  sun- 
shine, and  some  few  who  were  of  the  more  respectable  Church- 
going  class,  and  could  not  spend  the  after-part  of  the  day  in 
such  a  manner,  were  returning  from  early  walks.  There  were 
very  few  shadows,  however,  to  break  the  quiet,  undisturbed  sun- 
shine of  the  usually  crowded  street. 

The  blinds  were  all  drawn  down  in  Mrs.  Rodger's  respec- 
table house — all  except  one  in  the  little  parlour  of  the  Muirs. 
The  outer  door  stood  ajar — it  was  generally  so  during  the  day 
— and  as  Cuthbert  proceeded  up  the  stairs,  the  grave  doleful 
voice  of  some  one  reading  aloud  struck  on  his  ear.  This,  and 
the  closely-veiled  windows,  made  him  somewhat  apprehensive 
— and  he  quickened  his  pace  in  solicitude  for  the  sufferer. 

The  door  of  the  house  was  opened  to  him  by  a  little  slip- 
shod pseudo-Irish  girl,  who  held  the  very  unenviable  situation 
of  servant  to  Mrs.  Rodger.  The  door  opened  into  a  large  airy 
lobby,  at  the  further  end  of  which  was  Harry  Muir's  little-par- 
lour  ;  but  Cuthbert's  attention  was  drawn  to  another  open 
door,  through  which  he  had  a  glimpse  of  a  large  kitchen,  with 
various  figures,  in  strange  dishabille,  pursuing  various  oc- 
cupations in  it — one  engaged  about  her  toilette — one  preparing 
breakfast — and  another  trying  to  smooth  out  with  her  hands 
the  obstinate  wrinkles  of  a  green  silk  gown.  They  were  talk- 
ing without  restraint,  and  moving  about  continually,  while  at 


HARRY    MUIR.  10 

a  large  decal  table  near  the  window,  with  her  back  turned  to 
the  open  door,  sat  a  tall  old  woman,  in  a  widow's  cap,  with  a 
volume  of  sermons  in  her  hand,  reading  aloud.  The  voice  was 
most  funereal  and  monotonous,  the  apartment  darkened  by  the 
blind  which  quite  covered  the  window.  One  of  the  daughters 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  stranger,  and  hastily  closed  the  door. 
Cuthbert  turned  to  the  little  parlour  with  a  puzzled  smile. 

The  room  was  small,  and  garnished  with  a  faded  carpet, 
an  old  sofa,  half-a-dozen  ponderous  mahogany  chairs,  and  the 
cradle  which  Cuthbert  had  rocked  the  previous  night.  The 
little  table  was  covered  with  a  white  table-cloth,  and  glancing 
with  cups  and  saucers ;  and  by  the  side  of  the  little  clear  fire 
the  kettle  was  singing  merrily.  Rose,  in  her  Sabbath  dress  of 
brown  merino,  stood  at  the  window  with  the  baby.  Martha, 
newly  relieved  from  her  long  night's  vigil  in  the  sick  room,  was 
cutting  bread  and  butter  at  the  table  ;  and  in  the  arm-chair, 
with  great  enjoyment  of  the  dignity,  sat  Violet  ;  her  attention 
divided  between  the  psalm  she  was  learning,  and  the  little 
handsome  feet  in  their  snowy-white  woollen  stockings  and 
patent-leather  shoes,  which  she  daintily  rested  upon  the  fender. 
As  Cuthbert  entered  the  room,  the  young  wife  looked  out 
from  the  door  of  the  inner  apartment,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lip,  to  telegraph  that  Harry  had  fallen  asleep.  They  were  all 
of  that  sanguine  mood  and  temperament  which  springs  up  new 
with  the  light  of  the  morning,  and  even  on  the  pale  dark  face 
of  Martha  there  were  hopeful  smiles. 

'•  The  surgeon  has  been  here  already,"  she  said,  "  and 
Harry  is  not  sufi"ering  so  much  as  we  feared  he  would.  The 
symptoms  are  all  favourable,  and  we  may  hope  that  it  will 
have  no  ill  results  :  the  doctor  says  that  he  will  not  be  lame, 
poor  fellow  ;  and  now,  Mr.  Charteris,  we  have  to  thank  you 
for  preparing  us  so  gently  last  night  for  the  accident.  It  was 
very  kind — very  kind — to  take  so  disagreeable  an  office  on 
yourself,  and  not  leave  it  to  your  cousins." 

"  I  can  assure  you  they  were  sincerely  grieved,"  said 
Cuthbert,  '•  and  are  very  anxious  about  your  brother." 

"  They  are  only  lads,"  said  Martha,  quietly,  "  and  have  not 
the  consideration.  We  could  not  trust  youths  like  them,  as 
we  can  trust  a  more  mature  judgment.  For  our  own  sakes,  I 
am  very  glad,  Mr.  Charteris,  that  you  saw  poor  Harry's  acci- 
dent, and  the  cause  of  it — poor  Harry!  " 

Cuthbert  Charteris  was  very  much  interested — so  much 
so,  that  it  did  not  occur  to  him  what  a  very  unsuitable  time 


20  HARRY    MUIR. 

he  had  chosen  for  his  visit — nor  that  the  teapot  on  one  side 
of  the  old-fashioned  grate  was  beginning  to  puff  a  faint  inti- 
mation that  it  had  been  left  there  too  long,  and  that  the  kettle 
on  the  other  was  boiling  away.  It  was  very  nearly  ten  o'clock, 
and,  in  a  few  minutes,  the  Church-going  bells  would  ring  forth 
their  summons.  Rose  began  to  look  embarrassed,  and  to 
dread  being  too  late  for  Church ;  but  the  gentleman  was  talk- 
ing to  the  baby  and  to  Martha,  and  steadily  kept  his  place. 

At  last  Rose,  listening  in  terror  for  the  first  notes  of  the 
bell,  shyly  suggested  to  Martha  that  perhaps  Mr.  Charteris 
had  not  breakfasted. 

But  Mr.  Charteris  had  breakfasted  ;  and  as  Martha  lifted 
the  puffing  teapot  from  the  place  which  was  too  hot  for  it,  and 
bade  Violet  lay  down  her  psalm-book,  and  began  to  fill  the 
cups,  Mr.  Charteris  drew  his  seat  into  the  window,  and  kept 
possession.  He  had  settled  himself  already  quite  on  the  foot- 
ing of  an  old  friend,  and  began  to  feel  it  very  pleasant  to  sit 
there,  looking  out  on  the  fresh  wintry  sunshine,  and  the  clean 
humble  families  who  began  to  set  out  in  little  bands  for  the 
far-away  old  parish  Churches  of  Glasgow — not  choosing  to 
content  themselves  with  the  Chapel-of-ease,  politely  called  St. 
G-eorge's-in-the-Fields — profanely,  the  Black  Quarry.  There 
were  a  few  such  in  this  immediate  neighbourhood,  who  went  to 
the  Barony,  and  the  Tron  and  High  Churches,  as  old  resident- 
ers,  and  rather  looked  down  upon  the  new.  To  look  out  on 
these — the  mechanic  father  and  thrifty  mother,  and  group  of 
home-spun  children,  embellished,  perhaps,  with  a  well-dressed 
daughter,  working  in  the  mills,  and  making  money — and  to 
look  in  again  upon  the  little  bright  breakfast-table,  and  the 
three  sisters — the  mature,  grave,  elder  woman — the  Rose,  in 
the  flush  of  her  fairest  years,  half-blown — the  little,  shy,  dark- 
eyed  child — Mr.  Charteris  felt  himself  very  comfortable. 

They  had  to  speak  very  low,  for  Agnes  stole  to  the  door 
of  the  inner  room  now  and  then,  to  lay  her  finger  on  her  lips 
again,  and  telegraph  the  urgent  necessity  for  silence — and 
speaking  in  lialf  whispers  makes  even  indifferent  conversation 
look  confidential.  The  friendship  waxed  apace — very  rarely 
did  such  a  man  as  Charteris  come  within  sight  or  knowledge 
of  this  family.  The  atmosphere  of  commerce  is  rarely  lite- 
rary— in  their  class  they  had  read  of  the  fully  equipped  intel- 
lectual man,  but  had  met  him  never. 

They  themselves  were  of  an  order  peculiar  to  no  class,  but 
scattered   through  all ;  without  any  education  worth  speaking 


HARRY    MUIR.  21 

of,  except  the  two  plain  indispensable  faculties  of  reading  and 
writing,  Harry  Muir  and  his  sisters,  knowing  nothing  of  the 
world,  had  unconsciously  reached  at  and  attained  the  higher 
society  which  the  world  of  books  and  imagination  opens  to 
delicate  minds.  They  were  not  aware  that  their  own  taste 
was  unusually  refined,  or  their  own  intellect  more  cultivated 
than  their  fellows,  but  they  were  at  once  sensible  of  Cuth- 
!)ert\s  superiority,  and  hailed  it  with  eager  regard — not  with- 
out a  little  involuntary  pride  either,  to  find  that  this,  almost 
the  most  highly  cultivated  person  they  had  ever  met,  was,  after 
all,  only  equal  to  themselves. 

There  are  the  bells  echoing  one  after  another,  through  the 
now  populous  streets.  Mrs.  McGarvie,  from  the  little  shop 
below,  has  locked  her  door,  and  issues  forth,  with  her  good 
man,  who  is  a  rope-maker  and  deacon  of  his  trade,  to  the 
Barony  Kirk,  with  Rab,  her  large  good-humoured  red-haired 
son.  and  her  little  pretty  daughter  Ellen,  a  worker  in  the  mill, 
following  in  her  train  ;  and  with  great  dignity,  in  green  silk 
gowns  and  tippets  of  fur,  Miss  Jeanie  and  Miss  Aggie  Rodger 
sail  from  the  door,  bound  for  the  Relief  Meeting-house,  while 
Rose  Muir  ties  on  Violet's  neat  bonnet,  and  arranges  her  little 
cloak,  and  glides  away  herself  to  complete  her  own  dress, 
wondering,  with  a  little  flutter,  what  Mr.  Charteris  will  do 
now. 

Mr.  Charteris  very  speedily  decided  the  question,  for  he 
stood  waiting,  with  his  hat  in  his  hand,  when  Rose  entered 
the  parlour,  cloaked  and  bonneted.  Mr.  Charteris  had  never 
heard  Dr.  Jamieson,  He  thought  if  the  young  ladies  would 
permit  him,  he  should  be  glad  to  walk  with  them  to  the 
Church. 

And  the  young  ladies  did  permit  him,  with  much  shy  good 
will,  and  Mr.  Charteris  listened  to  Dr.  Jamieson's  fine  voice 
and  polished  sentences  with  great  edification.  The  Doctor 
was  a  man  in  his  prime,  bland  and  dignified,  and  knew  all  the 
economics  of  sermon-writing,  and  that  famous  art  of  domestic 
wisdom  which  makes  a  little  go  a  great  way  ;  nevertheless, 
Mr.  Charteris  turned  back  some  distance  on  the  road,  when 
the  service  was  ended,  to  animadvert  upon  the  Doctor,  and  to 
get  up  a  very  pretty  little  controversy  with  Rose,  who,  as  in 
duty  bound,  refused  to  hear  a  word  in  detriment  of  her  min- 
ister, so  that  the  discussion  carried  Mr.  Charteris  back  again 
to  the  very  door,  and  gave  him  another  prospect  of  the  Misses 
Rodger's  green  silk  gowns,  at  sight  of  which,  rai.sing  his  hat, 


22  HAKliY    MUIR. 

to  the  great  admiration  of  Violet,  Mr.  Charteris  turned  reluc- 
tantly away. 


CHAPTER    IV. 

"  For  the  sweet  Spring  that  bringeth  joy  to  all, 
Frets  the  pale  sufferer  bound  to  painful  couch, 
Or  chamber  dim  and  still." 

The  following  evening  was  signalised  in  the  quiet  house  of 
Mr.  Buchanan,  by  such  a  discussion  as  never  before  startled 
its  respectable  echoes.  Cuthbert  Charteris,  lawless  as  Ishmael, 
lifted  his  hand  against  every  man,  and  refused  to  confess  him- 
self worsted,  though  George  Buchanan  and  Sons,  as  a  firm,  and 
as  individuals,  not  to  speak  of  Adam  Smith,  and  the  law  of 
supply  and  demand,  were  set  in  battle  array  before  him. 

The  subject  of  controversy  was  one  which  would  have 
made  the  blood  boil  with  indignation  and  wrath  in  the  veins 
of  Harry  Muir,  being  nothing  less,  indeed,  for  a  starting-point, 
than  his  salary,  which  the  advocate,  looking  on  the  matter  in 
a  theoretical  point  of  view,  and  not  admitting  into  his  consid- 
eration the  "  everybody  else  "  whose  practice  had  so  large  a 
share  in  forming  the  opinions  of  his  cousins,  condemned  very 
strongly  and  clearly,  to  the  great  wrath  of  Richard  and  Alick, 
and  the  half-convinced  irritation  of  their  father,  as  quite  an 
unfair  and  inadequate  remuneration  for  the  full  time  and  la- 
bours of  an — at  least  partially — educated  man.  Cuthbert 
had  not  at  all  a  commercial  mind,  and  the  natural  right  and 
justice  continually  overshadowed  with  him  the  laws  of  supply 
and  demand.  It  was  impossible  to  persuade  him,  that  any 
law  required  of  him  a  systematic  wrong,  nor  that  a  man's  own 
personal  conscience  had  nothing  to  do  with  his  position  as  an 
employer  of  other  men.  Cuthbert  would  not  be  convinced — 
neither  would  Dick  and  Alick — and  Mr.  Buchanan  himself, 
head  of  the  firm  and  the  house,  took  up  his  candle  abruptly  and 
went  ofi",  in  some  excitement,  to  his  own  apartment,  there  to 
sleep  upon  sundry  propositions  which  had  entered,  like  arrows, 
sharp  and  irritating,  into  a  mind  which  would  hear  reason, 
whether  its  possessor  chose  or  no. 

Cuthbert  remained  some  weeks  in  Glasgow — he  had  little 
practice  to  neglect  at  home,  and  the  western   magnates  made 


IIAKKV    MUIK.  23 

much  of  him,  greatly  esteeming  in  their  hearts  the  metropoli- 
tan '•  rank  "  so  very  different  from  their  own,  which  they  af- 
fected to  despise ; — and  the  intercourse  which  he  had  with  the 
Muirs,  already  bore  a  character  of  friendliness  and  confidence, 
such  as  not  unusually  elevates  an  acquaintance  formed  at  some 
family  crisis,  into  a  warm  and  lasting  friendship.  But  Char- 
teris  at  length  was  going  home,  and,  not  without  many  jibes 
from  his  young  cousins,  about  the  strange  attraction  which 
drew  him  so  often  to  visit  the  invalid,  he  set  out  from  the 
oflBce  for  the  last  time  to  see  Harry  Muir. 

Very  different  is  the  look  which  this  bustling  street  bears 
in  its  every-day  occupation  from  the  Sabbath  quietness  which 
hushes  all  its  voices.  Great  carts  are  constantly  passing  with 
ostentatious  din  and  clamour,  as  if  proud  of  their  load — light 
unburdened  ones,  flj^ing  up  and  down,  with  the  driver  perched 
on  his  little  movable  seat,  and  the  end  of  the  whip  floating 
like  a  streamer  over  his  horse's  head — while  now  and  then 
wearied  travelling  people  come  slowly  down,  carrying  box  and 
carpet  bag,  fresh  from  the  tedious  journeys  of  the  canal.  Vio- 
let Muir  stands  at  the  door  of  the  little  room  wherein  Mrs. 
McGarvie  lives,  and  eats,  and  sells  butter,  brose-meal,  and 
''  speldrens,"  lovingly  conversing  with  Tiger,  McGarvie's  great 
ferocious,  sinister-looking  dog.  He  is  by  no  means  prepos- 
sessing, this  friend  of  Violet's,  and  has  a  wiry  yellow  coat, 
and  a  head  largely  developed  in  the  animal  parts,  and  small 
in  the  intellectual,  with  a  fiery  red  truculent  eye  ; — yet,  never- 
theless, he  is  Violet's  friend,  and  the  little  girl  like  the  fairy 
Titania  has  beauty  enough  in  her  own  eyes  and  heart  to  glorify 
her  friend  withal — so  Tiger  is  sufficiently  adorned. 

Shaking  hands  kindly  in  passing,  and  patting  the  little  shy 
head  which  drooped  under  his  eye,  Cuthbert  went  up  stairs 
through  the  always  open  door  to  the  now  familiar  parlour. 
Harry  was  rapidly  recovering  ;  he  had  been  removed  from  his 
room  for  the  first  time  to-day,  and  now  lay  on  the  sofa,  while 
his  little  wife  gaily  danced  about  the  crowing  baby  before  him. 
They  made  a  pretty  group,  as  Agnes  leaned  over  the  great 
arm-chair,  and  little  Harry  put  forth  his  dimpled  hand  to 
stroke  his  father's  cheek,  bub  there  was  a  little  peevishness 
and  impatience  in  the  face  which  the  rosy  child's  fingers  passed 
over  so  lightly.   The  invalid  was  slightly  querulous  this  morning. 

'•  Just  the  time  of  all  the  year  that  I  enjoy  most,"  said 
Harry,  "  and  to  be  shut  up  here  now  !  It  tries  a  man's 
patience — open  the  window.  Rose." 


24  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Rose  got  cold  last  night,  when  you  had  the  window  open," 
said  Agnes  with  humility,  ''  and  the  baby  is  not  well — it  may 
hurt  yourself  too,  Harry." 

"  Nonsense.  Rose  can  sit  somewhere  else.  Open  the 
window." 

"  Surely,  if  you  wish  it,  Harry,"  said  Rose  promptly. 

The  day  was  bright,  but  cold,  and  the  wind  blew  in,  with 
a  sudden  gust,  through  the  opened  window,  tossing  poor  Rose's 
hair  about  her  face,  and  shaking  her  with  a  momentary  shiver, 
but  saying  nothing,  she  withdrew  quietly  to  a  corner  and  re- 
sumed her  work.  Rose  had  never  ventured  all  her  life  to  dis- 
pute any  one  of  Harry's  caprices. 

"  One  likes  to  have  a  glance  at  the  world  again,"  said 
Harry,  raising  himself  on  his  pillows.  '•  Yonder  comes  the 
postman,  Agnes — see,  he  is  holding  up  a  letter — run,  and  get 
it.  Rose ;  and  yonder  is  Rab  McGarvie,  carrying  a  peck  of 
brose-meal  to  somebody,  and  little  Maggie  McGillivray  clipping 
at  the  door.  It  is  pleasant  to  see  them  all,  and  this  wind,  how 
fresh  and  wholesome  it  is.  Lift  the  window  a  little  more, 
Martha — ^just  for  a  moment." 

"  It  is  very  cold,  Harry,"  pleaded  the  little  wife. 

"  Nonsense,"  repeated  Harry,  "  don't  you  think  it  is  quite 
warm  for  the  season,  Mr.  Charteris  ?     Martha  !  " 

Martha  rose  with  sudden  impatience,  threw  down  her  work, 
and  rapidly  closed  the  window.  She  did  not  speak,  but  Cuth- 
bert  saw  a  strange  combination  of  the  strongly-marked  lines 
on  her  forehead,  and  a  close  compression  of  her  lips,  which 
did  not  look  very  peaceable.  The  act  itself  was  not  very  peace- 
able certainly,  but  there  was  a  suppressed  passion  in  her  look 
and  manner,  which  had  a  singular  effect  upon  the  stranger. 

Harry  Muir  said  nothing,  but  he  threw  himself  back  upon 
the  pillow,  sullen  and  offended.  There  was  a  scared  timid 
expression  on  the  face  of  the  young  wife,  and  little  Violet 
glided  up  behind  Martha,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  her  sister's 
shoulder  in  childish  deprecation. 

Just  then  Rose  entered  with  the  letter.  "  It  is  from  Ayr, 
from  my  uncle."  she  said.     "  Shall  I  open  it,  Harry  7  " 

'•  As  you  please,"  said  Harry,  sulkily. 

She  cast  a  hurried  glance  round  the  room,  pausing  for  a 
moment  with  a  searching,  inquisitive,  painful  look,  as  her  eye 
fell  on  Martha.  Then  she  came  to  her  brother's  side,  and  laid 
her  hand  softly  with  a  half  caress  upon  his  arm. 

'•'  Shall  I  read  what  my  uncle  says,  Harry,  for  everybody's 


HARRY    MUIR.  25 

benefit  1  Uncle  Sandy  always  writes  to  the  whole  of  us,  you 
know." 

There  was  no  answer.  Cuthbert  took  up  his  hat,  and  rose 
with  erabarrassmeut.      The  scene  was  becoming  painful. 

"  You  are  not  going  away,  Mr.  Charteris,"  said  Agnes, 
anxiously ;  "  pray  don't  go  away  so  soon,  when  this  is  your 
last  visit  too ;  and  I  am  sure  Harry  has  never  had  an  oppor- 
tunity before  to  thank  you  for  your  kindness,  nor  indeed  any 
of  us,  except  Martha.      Martha  had  to  make  all  our  thanks." 

"  Did  you,  Martha  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

Cuthbert  turned  away  his  head.  He  did  not  wish  them 
to  think  that  he  saw  through  those  little  palpable  affectionate 
artifices  of  theirs  to  heal  the  new-made  breach. 

'•  Martha  !  "  repeated  Rose,  under  her  breath. 

And  Cuthbert  looked  stealthily  at  this  passionate  face. 
The  rigid  lines  were  relaxing  slowly  ;  the  muscles  of  the 
mouth  moving  and  trembling  ;  fierce  and  strong  anger  melting 
into  inexpressible  tenderness  and  sorrow.  Vain  anger,  boot- 
less yearnings,  which  might  spend  their  strength  for  ages,  like 
the  great  sea  upon  the  sand,  and  never  change  its  form. 

"  Mr.  Charteris,  I  fear,  got  but  few  thanks  from  me,"  said 
Martha,  slowly  ;  "  but  Mr.  Charteris  has  seen  us  since,  and 
knows  that  to  do  kindness  to  Harry  is  to  have  the  greatest 
gratitude  we  can  feel." 

There  was  another  pause,  and  the  stranger  could  easily 
perceive  that,  facile  as  Harry  was  elsewhere,  he  liked  to  reign 
at  home,  and  did  not  very  readily  forgive  any  resistance  to  his 
will.  He  had,  indeed,  been  very  querulous,  and  unreasonable 
this  morning,  and  this  was  only  the  climax  of  a  series  of  petty 
selfishnesses  which  had  exhausted  Martha's  powers  of  long- 
suffering. 

•'  Shall  we  see  you  soon  in  Glasgow  again?  "  asked  Harry, 
at  length,  turning  once  more  to  Cuthbert. 

"  In  a  few  weeks,  perhaps  ;  I  may  have  some  business," 
said  Cuthbert,  with  embarrassment.  "  You  will  be  strong 
again  then,  I  hope.  My  uncle  commissions  me  to  say  that 
you  must  take  full  time  to  recover,  and  not  hurry  to  the  office 
too  soon." 

"  Mr.  Buchanan  is  always  very  kind,"  said  Agnes. 

'•  Is  he  ?  "  said  Cuthbert,  smiling,  "  scarcely  kind  enough, 

I  am  disposed  to  think ;  but  I  believe  it  is  not  the  inclination 

that  is  defective  in  my   uncle.     These  trammels  of  ordinary 

usage — doing  as  other  people  do — have  a  great  effect  upon 

2 


26  HARRY    MUIR. 

men  occupied  as  he  is.  He  does  not  take  time  to  judge  for 
himself,  and  exercise  his  own  generosity  and  justice." 

Cuthbert  concluded  in  some  haste.  Quite  consistent  as 
this  apology  was  with  his  own  previous  thoughts,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  it  was  quite  irrelevant  and  unnecessary 
here. 

"  Mr.  Buchanan  has  done  perfect  justice  to  Harry,  I  fancy," 
said  Martha  Muir,  raising  her  thin  figure  from  its  habitual 
stoop,  and  speaking  in  a  tone  of  cold  hauteur^  which,  like  the 
passion,  revealed  a  new  phase  of  her  character  to  Cuthbert, 
who  watched  her  with  interest ;  "  and  as  for  generosity,  Mr. 
Charteris,  your  uncle  seems  by  no  means  deficient  where  there 
is  any  scope  for  that.  I  see  his  name  often  in  the  papers. 
You  judge  Mr.  Buchanan  hardly." 

Cuthbert  comprehended,  and  was  silent.  Between  the 
rich  man's  indifference  and  the  poor  man's  pride  it  was  difficult 
to  steer ;  and  Richard  and  Alick  Buchanan  were  not  more 
haughtily  offended  at  the  accusation  of  treating  their  clerks 
unfairly  than  was  Harry  Muir's  sister  at  the  suggestion  that 
his  employer's  generosity  could  reach  him. 

"  This  poor  leg  of  mine  is  nearly  a  month  old  now,"  said 
Harry,  '•  and  except  some  grave  visits  from  Grilchrist,  no  one 
has  ever  taken  the  trouble  to  inquire  for  me.  I  suppose  your 
cousins  are  more  pleasantly  occupied." 

"  I  rather  think  Dick  is  afraid,"  said  Cuthbert. 

He  was  singularly  unfortunate  in  his  choice  of  subjects.  A 
little  red  spot  began  to  burn  on  Harry's  cheek  ;  poor  fellow, 
he  wanted  to  be  angry. 

"Afraid!" 

"  I  mean,  they  would  rather  not  encounter  the  ladies  till 
you  are  quite  recovered.  Persuading  you  to  go  with  them, 
you  know,  burdens  their  conscience,  because  it  exposed  you  to 
this  accident.  Not,  of  course,  that  any  one  was  to  blame,"  said 
Cuthbert,  hurriedly,  and  with  some  confusion. 

"  Their  conscience  is  over  scrupulous,"  said  Harry,  looking 
round  him  with  a  smile  of  defiance.  "  I  went  with  them  for 
my  own  pleasure  ;  so  far  as  there  is  any  blame  it  is  entirely 
mine." 

Poor  Harry,  weak  and  yielding  as  the  willow  in  the  wind, 
there  was  no  blame  to  which  he  was  so  nervously  susceptible 
as  this — no  accusation  which  he  denied  and  defied  with  so 
much  anger. 

Cuthbert  turned  again  to  the  window.     Just  before  him, 


HARRY    MUIR.  2*7 

in  a  half-built  street,  which  struck  off  at  right  angles  from  the 
road  to  Port  Dundas.  Maggie  McGillivray  sat  in  the  cold  sun- 
shine on  the  step  of  her  mother's  door,  "  clipping,"  *  with  a 
web  of  tamboured  muslin  on  her  knee  and  scissors  in  her  hand. 
Maggie,  as  Violet  Muir  could  have  testified,  was  only  sixteen, 
tijough  her  "  clipping  "  had  helped  the  family  income  for  seve- 
ral years,  and  her  own  money  had  purchased  for  her  the  little 
oright  red  tartan  shawl  which  just  covered  her  stout  shoulders, 
but  left  her  arms  unincumbered  and  her  hands  free.  On  the 
half-paved  road  before  her  stood  a  mill-girl,  with  whom  work 
was  •'  slack,"  and  who  had  spent  a  full  hour  this  morning 
elaborating  the  beautiful  plaits  and  braids  of  her  crisped  hair. 
This  young  lady,  with  much  gesture  and  many  superlatives, 
was  describing  to  the  busy  little  worker  an  itinerant  show 
which  had  fixed  its  temporary  quarters  at  Port  Dundas,  where- 
in there  was  a  giant  and  a  dwarf,  a  beautiful  lady  who  danced, 
and  a  boy  who  had  pink  eyes,  and  which  she  herself  was  on  the 
way  to  see ;  but  Maggie  clipped  and  shook  her  head,  unfolding 
the  web,  to  show  her  tempter  how  much  had  to  be  done  before 
one  o'clock,  when  she  must  lay  it  by,  to  take  up  the  pitcher 
with  her  father's  broth,  and  carry  to  him  his  wholesome  din- 
ner :  and  when  the  idler  sauntered  on,  to  seek  some  less  scru- 
pulous companion,  Maggy  returned  to  her  labour  with  such 
alacrity,  that  Cuthbert  fancied  he  could  almost  hear  the  sound 
of  the  shears,  and  the  loud  clear  tilt  of  the  "  Learig,"  to  which 
they  kept  time. 

Yet  Maggie  McGillivray  was  only  a  humble  little  girl, 
while  Harry  Muir,  in  his  way,  was  an  accomplished  man. 
Cuthbert  looked  back  upon  the  young  man's  fine  intelligent 
face,  on  which  the  proud  look  of  defiance  still  lingered,  with  a 
sigh  of  pity  and  regret — not  so  would  he  have  overcome  the 
temptation. 

*  Another  feminine  craft  peculiai*  to  the  "  west  country,"  whei*e  many 
young  girls,  of  a  class  inferior  to  the  workers  of  embroidery  and  spinning, 
are  employed  to  clip  the  loose  threads  from  webs  of  worked  muslin. 


28  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER  V. 

"  She  had  such  a  nature, 

You  would  have  thought  some  fairy,  'ware  o'th'  hour, 
"When  out  of  heaven  came  a  young  soul,  predestined 
For  a  King's  heir,  to  make  a  conqueror  of  him 
Had,  by  some  strange  and  wondrous  art,  diverted 
The  new-born  spirit  from  its  proper  course, 
And  hid  it  in  the  form  of  a  poor  maiden  ; 
Leaving  the  princely  weakling  in  his  cradle, 
Shorn  of  the  fate  that  waited  him  :  the  other 

Chafing  at  its  caged  limits  all  its  days " 

Old  Plat. 

A  SELF-WILLED,  pi'oud,  ambitious  woman,  with  a  strong,  clear, 
bold  intellect,  a  passionate  temper,  and  vehement  feelings, 
Martha  Muir  had  been  born.  So  much  education  as  she  had 
tended  all  to  reduce  her  to  the  due  humility  of  poverty  and 
womanhood,  but  surrounded  always  by  placid  natures,  who 
never  fully  comprehended  the  stormy  spirit  with  which  they 
had  to  deal,  Martha,  dwelling  alone,  and  hiding  in  her  own 
heart  the  secret  aspirations  which  no  one  round  her  could  have 
understood,  remained  as  proud,  as  self-willed,  and  as  ambitious 
as  she  had  been  born. 

For  hers  were  not  the  hopes  and  fancies  common,  as  people 
say,  to  youthful  women.  Advantages  of  appearance  she  had 
never  possessed,  and  the  children  who  were  growing  up  at  her 
feet  absorbed  all  the  passionate  affections  of  their  grave  sister  ; 
but  Martha's  hopes  were  visions  of  unmitigated  ambition, 
eager  to  work  out  for  itself  a  future  worthy  of  its  own  bold 
spirit,  for  it  was  not  of  windfalls,  or  happy  chances,  or  of  for- 
tune to  be  bestowed  on  her  by  another,  but  of  that  ladder  "  to 
which  the  climber  upwards  turns  his  face,"  that  the  solitary 
woman  dreamed. 

To  raise  them — these  children — to  that  indefinite  rank  and 
honour  which  exists  in  the  fancy  of  the  young  who  are  poor,  to 
win  for  them  exemption  from  those  carking  cares  amid  which 
her  own  youth,  a  strong  plant,  had  grown  green  and  flourished. 
Such  hopes  were  strong  in  the  heart  of  the  passionate  girl 
when  people  round  her  thought  her  only  a  child  ;  and  when 
darker  necessities  came,  when  following  many  little  pilgrims, 
the  father  and  the  mother  went  away,  leaving  her  the  head  of 
the  sadly  diminished  family,  her  strong  desire,  intensified  by 
great  grief,  possessed  her  like  a  fiery  tormenting  spirit.     She 


HARRY    MUIK.  29 

was  then  a  woman  of  only  twenty  years,  while  Harry  was  but 
thirteen ;  and  Martha  prayed  in  an  agony  for  means — only 
means,  to  let  her  strong  energies  forth  and  labour  for  her  chil- 
dren, but  the  means  never  came — how  could  they?  and  all  she 
could  do  in  her  passion  of  ambitious  love  was  to  toil  day  and 
night  for  their  bread. 

No  one  of  all  her  friends  knew  how  to  deal  with  Martha, 
so  that  her  impatient  soul  knew  no  discipline  except  the  inevi- 
table restraints  of  poverty,  and  these,  if  they  humble  the  pride, 
are  but  spurs  to  the  eager  fancy,  burning  to  escape  from  their 
power.  Through  all  the  years  of  romance  the  wish  and  hope 
to  do  somewhat  had  filled  Martha's  mind  with  visions  ;  but 
then  came  those  slow,  gradual  steady  years,  wherein  the  light 
of  common  day  began  to  blot  out  the  radiant  mists  of  the 
morning,  and  as  her  hopes  fell  one  by  one,  and  one  by  one  the 
months  lengthened,  filled  with  the  tedious  labour  which  gave 
such  scope  for  thought,  bitterness  came  in  like  deep  waters 
into  the  fierce  heart,  which  rendered  all  its  strength  to  that 
might  of  disappointment,  and  wrestled  with  itself  like  a  caged 
eagle.  To  find  that  after  aspiring  to  do  all,  one  can  do  no- 
thing— that  soaring  in  fancy  into  the  broad  firmament,  in  the 
body  one  must  condescend  to  all  the  meanest  and  smallest 
cares  of  daily  life — to  dream  of  unknown  heights  to  be  attain- 
ed, and  to  find  instead  that  by  the  slow  toil  of  every  long  unin- 
teresting day  one  must  labour  for  daily  bread,  it  is  not  wonder- 
ful that  the  awaking  was  bitter,  and  all  the  more,  that  in  both 
the  dream  and  the  awaking  she  was  uncomprehended  and 
alone. 

They  all  lay  dead  these  hopes  of  her  strange  solitary  youth, 
but  as  they  died  others  rose.  This  boy,  in  whom  the  young 
beautiful  life  rose  with  a  grace  which  she  knew  it  never  had 
in  herself,  what  might  he  not  do  1  and  so  she  set  herself  to 
train  him.  The  old  lore  that  is  in  all  hearts  of  the  brave  and 
of  the  great,  the  histories  of  Scripture,  which  live  for  ever  ;  all 
that  God  has  recorded  for  us  of  his  servants'  stout  lives,  and 
much  that  men  have  written  in  lesser  records.  The  lonely 
young  woman,  feeling  herself  grave  and  old  among  her  neigh- 
bours, poured  all  her  vehement  heart  into  the  glowing  intelli- 
gence of  the  boy.  She  began  to  think  it  well  that  those 
chimeras  of  her  own  had  fallen  like  withered  leaves  to  enrich 
the  soil,  and  in  him  would  be  the  glorious  spring. 

How  was  it  now?  The  deep  red  flush  which  sometimes 
burned  on  Martha's  cheek,  the  anger  which  only  one  of  so  dear 


30  HARRY    MUIR. 

regard  could  awaken,  and  sadder  still,  the  utter  heaviness  with 
which  her  heart  sank  in  the  rebound,  proclaimed  the  end  of 
her  second  harvest.  The  first  time  she  had  sowed  in  proud 
wilfulness,  it  was  meet  she  should  reap  disappointment ;  but 
the  second  seed-time  had  been  in  hope  more  Christianlike,  and 
with  strong  crying  for  the  sunshine  and  the  dew — the  wonder- 
ful sunshine  and  dew  of  high  heaven — which  never  had  fallen 
upon  her  seed. 

It  seemed  that  her  fate  had  been  born  with  her.  The 
proud  and  passionate  temper  to  be  thwarted  and  crossed  at 
every  turn.  The  vehement  ambitious  mind,  to  be  disgraced 
and  humbled,  and  with  those  arrows  in  her  heart,  she  was  now 
fighting  with  herself  a  greater  fight  than  she  had  ever  hazarded 
before,  subduing  herself  to  herself,  and  to  the  Higher  One, 
who  thus  painfully  had  brought  back  the  rebel  soul  to  His 
allegiance.  It  was  hard  to  subdue  the  old  passion — the  old 
pride,  but  she  had  begun  to  sanctify  her  contest  now,  when  it 
had  come  to  the  bitterest. 

No  other  trial  could  have  been  so  hard  to  her  as  this,  it 
struck  at  her  very  life.  Misfortunes  against  which  she  could 
struggle  would  have  been  happy  discipline  to  Martha,  but  to 
look  on  helplessly  while  these  elements  of  ruin  were  develop- 
ing in  the  life  of  her  brother  ;  to  stand  by  and  see  him  fall 
lower  and  lower  into  the  poor  and  petty  sins  which  she  des- 
pised— to  watch  the  slow  coming  of  disgrace  and  wretched- 
ness which  she  could  not  lift  a  finger  to  avert,  who  can  won- 
der that  the  proud  spirit  was  chafed  into  passions  of  fierce 
anger  sometimes,  and  sometimes  into  very  despair,  but  Martha 
never  spoke  of  what  she  suffered — she  only  said  "  Poor 
Harry  !  " 

"  Shall  I  read  my  uncle's  letter  now  ?  "  asked  Kose,  when 
Cuthbert  was  gone. 

'•  Surely,"  said  Harry,  whom  some  slight  incident  had  re- 
stored to  perfect  good-homour.  "  Surely,  Rosie,  let  us  hear 
what  the  old  man  says." 

"  I  write  this  to  let  you  know  that  I  am  quite  well,"  read 
Rose,  "though  a  little  troubled  with  the  rheumatism  in  my 
right  arm,  which  always  comes  on  about  the  turn  of  the  year, 
as  you  will  all  mind  ;  and  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  of  Harry's 
accident;  but  there  is  less  matter  for  lamentation,  it  being 
gotten  in  a  good  way,  as  I  have  no  doubt  Martha  will  mind. 
The  town  crier,  Sandy  Proudfoot,  broke  his  leg  at  Hogmanay, 
and  it's  never  mended  yet ;  but  I  cannot  see  what  better  the 


HAKKY    MUIR.  31 

daidling  body  had  to  expect,  it  being  a  thing  well  known,  that 
when  the  accident  was  gotten  he  was  as  he  should  not  have 
been,  which  is  a  great  comfort  in  respect  of  Harry.  I  hope  all  the 
rest  of  ye  are  well  and  doing  well,  and  desire  to  see  some  of  you  at 
Ayr  as  soon  as  ever  it  can  be  made  convenient.  If  Violet  is 
inclined  to  be  delicate,  send  her  out  to  me  for  a  change.  The 
guard  of  the  coach  would  take  good  care  of  her,  and  I  will  pay 
iier  passage  myself  I  hope  she  is  minding  her  lessons  and 
learning  to  help  the  rest  with  the  opening,  and  that  Rose  is 
intent,  as  the  cottar  says,  and  minds  her  duty  duly,  and  that 
Harry  is  steady  and  'grees  with  his  wife.  As  for  Martha,  see- 
ing she  knows  what  is  right  better  than  I  can  tell  her,  I  have 
nothing  to  say,  but  that  I  hope  she  keeps  up  to  the  mark, 
which  she  knows,  and  has  her  own  judgment  in  her  favour,  of 
which,  if  she  is  sure,  I  know  she  will  be  feared  for  no  other  in 
the  world.  And  so  I  remain,  my  dear  bairns,  your  affection- 
ate uncle — Alexander,  Muir." 

"  What  do  you  say,  Agnes,"  said  Harry,  "  do  we  agree  ?  " 

The  little  wife  smiled.  "  When  you  behave  yourself, 
Harry."  she  said,  laying  her  child  in  the  cradle. 

^'  If  we  could  manage  it,"  said  Martha,  "  when  Harry  is 
able  to  walk,  Agnes,  I  think  you  should  go  down  together  to 
see  my  uncle.     You  have  never  been  in  Ayr." 

Agnes  looked  up  brightly.  "  And  I  should  like  so  well  to 
go ;  and  it  would  do  Harry  so  much  good.  But  then,  Martha, 
how  can  we  afford  it  ?  " 

Harry  winced  visibly.  Some  debts  of  his  own,  recklessly 
and  foolishly  incurred,  had  made  the  long-projected  journey  to 
Ayr  impracticable  a  year  ago ;  the  fifteen  pounds  could  do  so 
little  more  than  provide  for  the  bare  wants  of  the  quarter ; 
and  yet  again  there  were  other  debts  waiting  the  next  pay- 
ment of  salary.     Poor  Harry  ! 

'•  I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Martha,  quietly  ;  "  I  see  how 
we  can  manage,  Agnes ;  we  will  only  work  the  more  busily. 
Rose  and  I,  while  you  are  away,  and  Harry  will  be  the  better 
of  it.  I  see  how  we  can  do  it.  It  will  do  Harry  good  to  see 
my  uncle  and  the  little  quiet  house  again." 

Harry  felt  there  was  meaning  in  her  voice.  To  dwell 
again  under  the  humble  roof  where  all  her  hopes  for  his  young 
life  had  risen ;  where  she  had  nursed  and  tended  the  dawniiv 
mind  within  him,  and  laboured  to  lift  his  eyes,  and  teach  huw 
to  look  upward  bravely,  like  a  young  eagle  to  the  sun.  Alas, 
poor  Harry  !     For  this  revival  of  the  unstained  hopes  of  youth, 


32  HARRY    MUIR. 

Martha  was  willing  to  toil  all  the  harder  at  her  tedious  un- 
ceasing toil ;  and  he  felt,  almost  for  the  first  time,  how  hope- 
less these  hopes  were.  How  difi'erent  were  his  expectations 
and  hers. 

"  It  is  a  shame,"  he  said,  abruptly,  '•  for  a  rich  man  like 
Buchanan  to  keep  us  down  so.  We  require  a  little  relaxation, 
a  little  ease,  as  well  as  them ;  and  I  would  like  to  know  how 
it  is  possible  we  can  get  it  on  sixty  pounds  a  year  ?  " 

"  Peter  McGillivray  has  only  fourteen  shillings  a  week," 
said  Rose. 

"  And  what  then  1 " 

"  He  keeps  a  family  on  it,  Harry  ;  at  least  his  wife  does ; 
but  then  she  is  very  thrifty." 

"  Thrifty  !  nonsense.  Is  not  Agnes  thrifty  too  1  You  are 
a  foolish  girl,  Rose,"  said  her  brother  :  "  you  think  a  few 
shillings  is  a  great  fortune.  There  now,  a  pound  or  two  would 
take  us  comfortably  down  to  my  uncle's  ;  but  how  can  we 
spare  that  ofi"  the  pittance  they  give  me  ?  " 

Yet  Harry  remembered  that  his  own  private  expenses — the 
little  debts  of  which  his  wife  and  sister  knew  nothing — 
amounted  to  more  than  that  needful  pound  or  two,  and  the  re- 
membrance brought  a  flush  to  his  face  and  made  him  angry. 

"  There  is  a  meanness  attends  this  mercantile  wealth,"  he 
exclaimed  hastily  ;  '•  a  want  of  thought  and  consideration  of 
others.  What  are  we  clerks  but  the  stuff  these  masters  of 
ours  are  made  of?  and  yet  how  they  keep  us  down." 

"  They  were  themselves  kept  down,  and  overcame  it,"  said 
Martha. 

"  Well,  it  is  not  a  very  noble  art,  the  art  of  making  money," 
said  Harry,  with  assumed  carelessness.  "  Dick  Buchanan 
and  the  rest  of  them  are  shallow  fellows  in  spite  of  it  all. 
And  their  father,  he  has  made  a  fortune,  but  the  honest  man  is 
no  genius." 

"  But  it  is  a  noble  art  to  refuse  to  be  kept  down,"  said  the 
ambitious  Martha,  with  a  kindling  of  her  eye.  "  I  am  ashamed 
to  think  that  Mr.  Buchanan  or  any  other  ordinary  person  can 
keep  down  my  brother  ;  and  he  cannot,  Harry.  You  have 
less  perhaps  than  you  ought  to  have  now,  but  win  more  ;  that 
is  your  refuge.  And  don't  let  us  throw  the  responsibility  on 
other  people.     We  have  only  to  answer  for  ourselves." 

"  Well,  Martha,"  said  Harry,  looking  up,  '•  we  have  not 
iruch  of  the  mammon  of  unrighteousness  to  answer  for.  I 
will  tell  my  uncle  you  have  grown  charitable  ;  that  is,  if  it  be 
at  all  possible  to  get  to  Ayr." 


HARRY    MUIR.  33 

"  What  do  you  think,  Martha  ?  "  said  Agnes,  with  some 
solicitude  in  her  face. 

'•  You  must  go  ;   that  is  all,"  said  Martha, 

The  little  wife  was  by  no  means  self-opisiated.  She  had  a 
great  reverence  for,  and  faith  in,  the  decrees  of  Martha,  and 
knew  that  what  her  grave  sister  resolved  would  be  accomplish- 
ed "  some  way,"  so  she  returned  pleasantly  to  the  cradle. 

'•  And  /  don't  want  to  go,  Martha,"  whispered  little  Violet, 
desiring  to  have  her  sacrifice  appreciated.  "  My  uncle  will 
give  the  money  to  Agnes,  and  I  will  stay  at  home  and  help 
you  to  open." 

"  But  you  would  like  to  go,  Lettie  ?  "  said  Rose. 

"  No  ;  I  would  rather  stay  at  home  with  Martha  and  you. 
I  think,  Martha,"  whispered  Violet  again,  "  that  it  will  be 
fine  to  be  our  lane  just  for  a  wee  while — when  Agnes  is  with 
Harry." 

In  the  elder  mind  there  was  a  response  to  the  child's 
thought — to  know  that  Harry  was  safe  with  the  good  uncle, 
and  the  anxious  little  wife  to  guard  him,  while  yet  they  them- 
selves were  left  a  little  while  alone,  freed  from  their  constant 
anxiety,  to  rest  and  take  breath  for  the  future  which  remained, 
with  all  its  unknown  cares  before  them.  There  was  something 
in  the  thought  which  gave  Martha  relief,  and  yet  oppressed  her 
with  a  heavier  sadness ;  but  Agnes  was  already  gay  in  antici- 
pation, and  eagerly  discussing  what  she  should  take  of  her 
little  wardrobe,  and  how  many  frocks  for  baby  Harry — for 
Agues  was  still  only  a  girl,  and  the  unusual  pleasure  filled  her 
with  wholesome  natural  delight — a  good  and  happy  contagion 
which  soon  spread  itself  in  softened  degrees  over  all  the  rest. 


CHAPTER  VI, 


"  He  left  mo  wi'  his  deein»  breatb, 
A  dwelling-house,  and  a'  that." 

Old  Song. 


'•  I  WANT  a  next  of  kin,  Charteris,"  said  an  Edinburgh  W. 
S..  entering  the  little  office  where  Cuthbert  sat,  solemnly  con- 
sidering the  morning's  paper,  opposite  an  elbow-chair,  which 
had  very  seldom  been  honoured  by  the  presence  of  a  client. 
"  I  want  a  next  of  kin,  and  I  can't  tell  where  to  find  him." 
2* 


34  HARRY    MUIR. 

The  speaker  was  a  young  man  about  Cuthbert's  own  age, 
who  like  himself  had  newly  begun  to  encounter  for  himself 
the  cares  and  responsibilities  of  business.  They  had  come 
together  through  the  training  of  the  High-School  and  College, 
and  now  were  great  friends  and  allies,  furthering  each  other's 
progress,  by  all  means  in  their  power. 

"  Advertise,"  said  the  laconic  Cuthbert,  from  behind  the 
folds  of  his  newspaper. 

"  Oh,  oracle  !  "  answered  Mr.  David  Lindsay,  throwing 
down  a  black  crumpled  "  Times,"  which  struck  upon  the  fair 
broadsheet  of  "  Tlie  Scotsman^^^  and  compelled  the  reader's 
attention.  "  And  suppose  I  have  advertised,  and  failed — 
what  then  %  " 

"  It's  a  cold  day,  Davie,"  responded  the  learned  advocate. 
"  Sit  down.  Lord  Lion,  and  tell  me  all  about  it." 

'•  I  say,  Cuthbert,  there's  a  story,"  said  the  W.  S.  mysteri- 
ously. 

Cuthbert  stirred  the  fire,  and  prepared  to  listen. 

"  Up  near  the  links  of  Forth,  there  is  a  gray  old  house 
called  AUenders,"  said  Lindsay,  with  some  importance,  "  and 
in  the  house  there  dwells  a  family  as  your  penetration  will 
guess — or  rather,  dwelt  a  family — for  they  are  now  extin- 
guished— AUenders  of  AUenders — and  between  four  and  five 
hundred  a-year  ;  now  that's  what  I  want  a  man  for,  Cuthbert." 

"  Between  four  and  five  hundred  a-year,"  repeated  Cuth- 
bert gravely.     "  I  would  take  it  myself,  to  oblige  you,  Davie." 

"  Thank  you — I  could  get  lots,"  said  the  representative  of 
the  poet  King-at-Arms.  "  But  the  right  man,  Charteris — 
by-the-bye,  I  should  say'  the  right  woman — the  right  two 
women — where  to  lay  my  hands  on  them." 

"  So  the  heir  is  extant  after  all,"  said  Cuthbert ;  "  you 
know  that,  do  you  ?  " 

"  Wait  a  little,  and  I'll  tell  you  what  I  know.  They  have 
always  been  a  highly  respectable  family,  these  AUenders, 
mind,  and  you  know  what  that  means  ;  comfortable,  slow,  com- 
mon-sense folk,  with  no  hair -brained  sentimental  traces  about 
them.  Well !  the  last  father  of  them  had  seven  sons — there 
was  no  appearance  of  a  lack  of  heirs  then — and  one  of  the 
sons,  the  third  or  fourth  I  think,  took  it  into  his  head  to  be  a 
— what  is  your  most  philosophical  name  for  it — the  AUenders 
said  a  sentimental  fool — which  means,  you  know,  that  he  mar- 
ried somebody." 

'•  I  beg  to  assure  you  that  there  is  no  sort  of  philosophy 
in  that  achievement.  Lion,"  said  Cuthbert. 


HARRY    MUIR.  •  35 

"Don't  interrupt  me,  Charteris — why, man,  a  romantic  epi- 
sode in  the  history  of  a  dull  family  is  a  treasure.  This  son, 
his  name  was  John — everybody's  name  is  John — married 
some  poor  girl  or  other  in  Stirling,  and  thereupon  followed  a 
regular  tragic  disowning  of  the  refractory  son.  The  good 
people  were  startled  out  of  their  propriety ;  never  an  Allen- 
der  had  been  known  before  to  do  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
jog-trot,  and  the  example  of  his  daring  aroused  his  father 
and  his  brethren.  They  cast  him  out — they  banished  him 
from  the  paternal  countenance,  and  from  all  hope  of  ever  in- 
heriting the  paternal  acres,  and  so  left  him  to  seek  his  fortune, 
as  he  best  could.      That  was  seventy  years  ago." 

"  Seventy  years  !  why,  the  man  must  be  dead,"  said  Char- 
teris. 

"  Very  possibly.  It  does  not  concern  me  that,"  said  Lind- 
say. "  Well,  Charteris,  this  sentimental  John  got  some  sort 
of  situation  in  Stirling,  and  was  by  no  means  annihilated  by 
the  family  ban.  He  throve  and  multiplied  for  a  few  years — 
then  his  wife  died  suddenly,  leaving  him  with  two  daughters, 
and  then  he  disappeared. 

"  Where  he  went  to,  there  is  not  the  least  clue.  The  man 
was  half  mad  with  grief,  I  suppose.  It  was  said  he  was  going 
to  England — and  it  was  said  he  was  going  to  America.  It 
seems  quite  impossible  to  discover — every  trace  of  him  is  gone. 
And  now  all  the  seven  sons  are  exhausted  ;  after  all,  it  must 
be  best  to  be  stagnant,  Charteris — for  see  you,  whenever  this 
romance  stepped  in  among  the  decent  people,  what  a  blight  it 
brought  upon  them.  Four  of  them  died  unmarried — other 
two  had  children  who  have  grown  old  and  died  during  the 
lingering  lifetime  of  the  last  proprietor.  He  was  a  childless 
widower — and  now  the  old  man  has  gone  too  ;  and  where  am  I 
to  get  those  heirs  1  " 

"  Did  he  know  nothing  of  them?  "  said  Cuthbert. 

"  Nothing  ;  he  died  very  old — upwards  of  ninety — and  his 
senses  failed  him  ;  but  his  memory  seems  to  have  turned  with 
a  strange  kind  of  affection  to  this  poor  sentimental  lost  John. 
There  are  some  far  away  cousins  who  would  claim  as  heirs,  but 
the  old  laird  left  a  will,  ordaining  that  search  should  be  first 
made  for  the  children  of  John  Allender's  children  !  they  will 
not  be  fj[uite  youthful  now." 

"  And  there  is  no  trace  ?  "  said  Cuthbert. 

'•  None,  but  a  rather  fantastic  one,"  said  Lindsay,  smiling. 
"  The  favourite  female  name  of  the  Allenders  family  was 
Violet — old  AUender  thought  it  certain  that  one  of  those  chil- 


36  HARRY    MUIR. 

dren  would  be  called  Violet — and  their  mother's  name  was 
Rose.     What's  the  matter,  Cuthbert?" 

"  Strange  ! "  said  Cuthbert,  looking  up,  with  a  start. 
'•  Why,  I  met  a  family  in  Grlasgow,  last  month,  in  which  there 
were  both  these  names." 

"  Ay — where  ?  what's  their  name  ?  who  are  they  ?  "  said 
Lindsay  eagerly. 

'•  Their  name  is  Muir — they  are  rather  a  noticeable  family 
in  many  respects,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  a  little  hesitation  ;  "  but 
so  far  as  pecuniary  matters  go,  very  humble  people.  Could  it 
be  ?  Rose  and  Violet — there  can  be  no  mistake  about  the 
names.  I'll  tell  you  what,  Lindsay,  I'll  go  through,  myself,  to 
the  west,  and  find  it  out." 

"  Many  thanks.  I  had  no  idea  you  took  so  much  interest 
in  these  professional  investigations,"  said  Lindsay,  with  some 
curiosity,  "  I  think  it  is  more  in  my  department  than  yours, 
Cuthbert." 

"  You  don't  know  them,  Davie,  you're  an  alien  and  a 
foreigner,  and  an  east  countryman,  whereas  my  mother  is  a 
Buchanan !  I  am  free  of  the  city,  Lion,  and  then,  I  know  the 
Muirs." 

"  Well,  Cuthbert,  you  know  your  own  secrets,  I  suppose," 
said  Lindsay,  laughing,  "  and  whether  it  is  just  professional 
zeal,  or  no,  all  this  I  won't  inquire,  but  as  for  all  your  rubbish 
about  east  countrymen,  you  don't  mean  me  to  believe  that,  you 
know.  Of  course,  if  you  are  acquainted  with  the  family,  that 
is  a  great  matter.     But  mind,  be  cautious  !  " 

"  Look  at  '  The  Scotsman^^  Davie,"  said  Cuthbert,  "  and 
keep  silence,  while  I  read  your  advertisement.  There  now,  be 
quiet." 

Two  stories  up  in  the  honourable  locality  of  York  Place, 
lived  Cuthbert's  mother.  They  were  not  very  rich,  certainly, 
but  the  old  lady  had  a  sufficient  portion  of  the  means  of  com- 
fort, to  prove  her  a  Buchanan.  She  was  a  little,  brisk,  active 
woman,  under  whose  management  everything  became  plentiful. 
It  was  not  an  economical  propensity,  but,  refined  and  somewhat 
elegant  though  Mrs.  Charteris'  own  individual  tastes  were,  it 
was  an  indispensable  thing  with  her  that  there  should  be 
"  routh  "  in  her  house.  So  there  were  dependants  hanging 
about  her  door  at  all  times,  and  stores  of  bread  and  broken 
meat  dispensed  to  all  comers.  Mrs.  Charteris  had  unlimited 
faith  in  her  two  neat,  blooming,  sister  servants.  She  thought 
they  could  discriminate  the  line  between  plenty  and  waste, 


HARRY    MUIR.  37 

almost  as  distinctly  as  she  did  herself,  and  when  Cuthbert  return- 
ed home  that  day  he  found  his  mother  delivering  a  short  lively 
lecture  on  the  subject — a  lecture  such  as  was  rather  a  habit  of 
hers — to  the  elder  of  the  two  trusted  confidential  maids. 

"  You  see,  Lizzie,  my  woman,  to  lay  the  moulins  out  of  the 
bread-basket  on  the  window-sill  for  the  sparrows  is  very  kindly 
and  wiselike — a  thing  that  pleases  me — but  to  crumble  down 
one  side  of  the  good  loaf  that  we're  using  ourselves,  is  tvaste. 
You  see  the  difference.  It  might  have  been  given  to  some 
poor  body." 

"  Yes.  mem,"  said  Lizzie,  demurely,  "  and  so  I  did.  I  gi'ed 
the  ither  half  o'  the  loaf  to  Margaret  Lowrie." 

Mrs.  Charteris  looked  grave  for  a  moment.  "  We  were 
using  it  ourselves,  Lizzie ;  but  to  be  sure,  in  a  house  where 
there's  plenty,  there  should  aye  be  the  portion  for  folk  that 
have  more  need,  and  as  long  as  it's  lawfully  used,  Lizzie,  I 
never  find  fault,  but  to  waste  is  a  great  sin.  Now,  you'll  mind 
that,  and  take  the  moulins  after  this  for  the  sparrows." 

"  It's  Mr.  Cuthbert,  mem,"  said  Jess,  the  younger  sister  of 
the  two,  returning  from  the  door,  and  the  little  active  old  lady 
rustled  away  in  her  black  silk  gown  to  her  parlour  to  see  what 
had  brought  home  her  son  at  so  unusual  an  hour. 

The  parlour  or  drawing-room,  for  it  might  be  called  either, 
was  a  handsome  room,  though  it  was  on  the  second  story,  and 
its  very  comfortable  furniture  had  an  air  of  older  fashion  than 
the  present  time,  which  suited  very  gracefully  with  the  age  of 
its  mistress.  Near  one  of  its  large  windows  stood  an  antique 
spider-legged  table,  bearing  a  work-box  of  somewhat  elaborate 
manufacture,  an  open  book,  with  Mrs.  Charteris'  silver  thimble 
lying  on  it  for  a  mark,  and  Mrs.  Charteris'  work  by  its  side, 
while  within  reach  of  these  stood  an  easy  chair  and  a  footstool. 
The  spring  was  brightening  rapidly,  and  Mrs.  Charteris'  chair 
stood  always  in  this  window,  when  the  weather  permitted  her 
to  leave  the  fireside,  for  here,  as  she  plied  her  sewing,  or  glanced 
up  from  her  book,  she  could  observe  the  passengers  in  the 
street  below,  and  watch  for  Cuthbert  as  he  came  home  from 
bis  little  ofl&ce.  Cuthbert  had  a  slight  look  of  excitement  to- 
day, his  mother  thought,  as  she  took  off  her  spectacles  and 
looked  at  him  with  her  own  kindly  unassisted  eyes.  Mrs.  Char- 
teris fancied  her  son  had  perhaps  got  a  brief 

"  Well,  Cuthbert,  my  man, what  brings  you  home  so  soon  ?  " 
said  Mrs.  Charteris,  sitting  down  in  her  chair,  and  drawing  in 
her  footstool. 


38  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  I  think  I  will  go  through  to  Glasgow  to-morrow,  mother," 
said  Cuthbert  hastily. 

The  old  lady  looked  up  with  her  glasses  on.  There  was 
certainly  an  unusual  flush  and  a  happy  embarrassed  smile  upon 
the  face  of  her  good  son. 

"  The  laddie's  possessed  !  "  said  Mrs.  Charteris.  "  What 
would  you  do  in  Glasgow  again  so  soon  ?  It  is  not  a  month 
since  you  came  home,  Cuthbert !  " 

"  Neither  it  is.  mother,''  said  the  advocate,  "  but  I  have 
got  some  business  in  hand — a  myster}^,  mother,  to  exercise  my 
legal  judgment  on." 

Mrs.  Charteris  was  interested.     '•  Aye,  what's  that  ?  " 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  hesitation — about  the  learned 
gentleman — it  was  evident  there  was  no  fee  in  this  case. 

"  I  told  you  about  that  young  man,  mother, — that  family 
of  Muirs." 

The  old  lady  looked  up  quickly.  She  was  a  good  deal 
interested  in  this  family  of  Muirs,  partly  because  her  son  had 
spoken  much  of  them,  and  still  more  because  he  seemed  so  very 
willing  to  return  to  the  subject.  "  What  about  them,  Cuth- 
bert ?  " 

"  I  had  Davie  Lindsay  with  me  to-day,"  said  Cuthbert, 
lifting  up  and  turning  over  the  pages  of  his  mother's  book. 
'"'  He  is  very  anxious  to  trace  out  the  heirs  of  a  small  old 
estate  near  Stirling,  and  I've  a  notion  these  Muirs  are  the  peo- 
ple he  wants." 

Mrs.  Charteris  dropped  her  work  on  her  knee,  and  looked 
up  with  much  interest. 

"  The  lost  heir  had  two  daughters  called  Rose  and  Violet, — 
rather  a  singular  conjunction.  Now  the  two  younger  Muirs 
bear  these  names — a  strange  coincidence,  if  it  is  nothing  else 
— and  if  one  could  help  such  a  family.  I  told  you  how  much 
they  interested  me,  mother." 

^''  Yes,"  said  the  old  lady,  "  Violet — that  was  the  little  girl 
— I  heard  you  mention  her — but  which  of  them  is  Rose?  " 

Mr.  Cuthbert  Charteris  looked  a  little  foolish,  and  with- 
drew into  the  shadow  of  the  curtain,  which  fortunately  was 
green,  and  neutralized  the  slight  unusual  flush  upon  his  face. 
••  One  forgets  these  girls'  names,"  he  said,  with  a  short  laugh, 
'•  though  this  is  rather  a  pretty  one.  The  elder  one  is  Martha, 
you  know,  mother — a  grave  enough  name  to  make  up  for  the 
romance  of  the  other  two — the  intermediate  young  lady  is 
Rose." 


IIARRV    iMUIR.  39 

"  How  old  is  she,  Cuthbert  ?  "  interrogated  his  mother. 

"  I  really  am  no  judge — I  could  hardly  guess — quite  young 
though,"  said  Cuthbert  hurriedly,  "but  the  similarity  of 
names  is  very  striking,  and  if  I  could  trace  out  a  relation- 
ship, I  should  be  exceedingly  pleased,  mother ;  besides,  that 
one  is  bound,  as  a  matter  of  duty,  to  assist  in  proving  a  birth- 
right in  any  circumstances — ;and  this  young  man  will  never  do 
in  business,  it  is  clear — whereas  he  might  make  a  capital  coun- 
try gentleman." 

Mrs.  Charteris  was  a  little  prejudiced.  She  shook  her 
head  :  "  It  is  not  so  easy  to  make  a  gentleman,  Cuthbert ;  the 
transition  from  sixty  pounds  a-year  to  five  hundred,  though 
it  must  be  very  comfortable,  no  doubt,  will  never  accomplish 
that." 

"  Harry  Muir,  mother,"  said  Cuthbert,  "  is  not  a  wise  man 
by  any  means — at  five  and  twenty,  I  scarcely  think  I  was  very 
wise  myself — but  Harr}'  Muir  with  his  sixty  pounds,  is  a  gen- 
tleman already.  I  am  afraid  Dick  Buchanan  would  suffer 
very  greatly  if  you  saw  them  together,  and  compared  the  two." 

'■  Ritchie  Buchanan  is  your  cousin,  Cuthbert,"  said  the  old 
lady,  warmly.  '•  He  is  called  after  my  father,  who  ivas  a  gen- 
tleman though  he  was  not  so  rich  as  his  son.  To  be  sure  these 
laddies  were  very  loud  the  last  time  I  saw  them,  and  I  believe 
Ritchie  had  a  ring,  and  no  glove  upon  his  hand — but  still, 
Cuthbert,  you  must  not  be  an  ill  bird." 

"  Well,  we  shall  see,"  said  Cuthbert,  smiling.  '^  Wait  till 
I  show  you  Harry  Muir,  mother — no  discredit  to  Dick,  or  any 
of  them — but  my  uncle's  clerk  is  a  very  difi"erent  person  ;  poor 
fellow  ! — if  he  only  had  half  as  much  prudence  as  the  youngest 
of  them,  it  would  be  better  for  him.  He  is  of  that  class,  who, 
people  say,  are  nobody's  enemies  but  their  own." 

*;  And  that  is  just  the  most  hopeless  class  of  all,  Cuthbert," 
said  Mrs.  Charteris  :  "  you  may  cure  a  bad  man  that  has 
'-  faith^^  you  may  turn  a  vessel  that  is  ballasted  and  steady  into 
another  course,  but  for  your  bits  of  gay  pleasure-boats  that  float 
with  the  stream,  alack  and  woe  is  me  !  It  is  a  hopeless  work, 
Cuthbert,  you  never  tried  your  hand  at  anything  so  vain." 

•'  That  is  the  sister's  work,  not  mine,  mother,"  said  Cuth- 
bert, '•  and  I  can  believe  it  is  not  a  very  promising  one,  but  in 
the  meantime,  I  must  try  and  lay  my  hands  upon  the  clue  which 
will  conduct  Davie  Lindsay  to  his  end,  and  give  him  an  heir 
to  AUendcrs.  Of  course,  I  will  not  speak  of  it  to  the  family 
till  I  have  ascertained  something  more  about  these  names,  but 


40  HARRY    MUIR. 

I  think  the  result  is  very  likely  to  be  what  I  heartily  wish  it 
may." 

"  I  will  wager  you  a  silver  crown,  Cuthbert,"  said  Mrs. 
Charteris,  "  that  the  bairn  is  called  after  old  Mrs.  Violet 
Primrose  of  Govan,  and  that  Mrs.  Hervey  of  Monkland,  is  the 
name-mother  of  the  elder  one  ;  and  to  make  it  the  more  ap- 
propriate, to-morrow  is  the  first  of  April,  and  Davie  Lindsay 
has  sent  you  on  a  gouk's  errand,  for  a  credulous  callant  as  you 
are  ;  now  mind,  I  told  you." 

"Very  well,  mother,  we  shall  see,"  replied  Cuthbert. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


"  He  has  a  secret  motive  in  his  search, 
Honest,  yet  would  he  not  that  all  the  world 
Saw  full  into  his  heart : — a  right  good  heart — 
Devising  nothing  evil,  yet  aware 
Of  certain  silent'sccrets  of  its  own." 

Old  Play. 


It  was  not  without  a  little  embarrassment  that  Cuthbert  pre- 
sented himself  next  day  at  the  office  of  his  uncle.  It  was  the 
day  before  the  dispatch  of  one  of  the  mails,  and  everybody  in  the 
office  was  very  busy.  Round  the  desk  of  Mr.  Gilchrist,  the 
cashier,  who  had  the  capital  business  head,  and  the  two  hundred 
yearly  pounds,  the  snuff  lay  in  little  heaps,  and  all  the  clerks 
of  meaner  degree  were  working  furiously,  with  scarcely  time  to 
interchange  now  and  then  the  usual  badinage  of  the  counting- 
house  ;  while,  in  Mr.  Buchanan's  room,  Richard  sat  writing 
letters  beside  his  father. 

"  Better  get  away  out  of  town,  Cuthbert,"  said  the  mer- 
chant, "  we  shall  be  late  to-night ;  but  your  aunt  and  Clemie 
are  at  home,  and  are  always  glad  to  see  you,  you  know,  whereas 
we  shall  only  bore  you,  if  you  wait  for  us.  I  think  you  had 
better  go  down  to  Greenbank  at  once." 

"  Very  well,  uncle,"  said  Cuthbert.  He  was  quite  re- 
signed to  postpone  his  enjoyment  of  their  company  for  a  few 
hours.  "  I  have  some  business  to  do,  but  I  shall  get  home 
before  you,  I  think." 

"  I  say,  Cuthbert,"  said  Richard  in  an  aside,  "  why  don't 
you  ask  for  Harry  Muir  ?  I  believe  you've  been  there  al- 
ready." 


HARRY    MUIR.  41 

"  Then  you  believe  nonsense,  Dick,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  a 
little  heat.     "  How  is  he,  poor  fellow  ?" 

"  He's  gone  down  to  Ayr.  Oh,  he's  recovering  fast,"  said 
Richard.  "  These  women  made  it  worse  than  it  was,  you 
know,  with  their  lamentations.  I  suppose  you're  going  to  call, 
Cuthbert  ?  " 

''  I  am  going  to  look  after  a  case  which  my  friend  Lindsay 
^  engaged  in,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  some  dignity.  "  I  must 
«!o  that  before  I  make  any  calls.  There  now,  that  will  do — 
you  are  sure  to  be  late  with  your  letters,  Dick." 

"  I  should  not  wonder,"  mused  Dick  Buchanan,  as  Cuth- 
bert made  his  escape,  "  if  his  business  was  in  Port  Dundas 
after  all."  And  the  curious  young  merchant  endeavoured  to 
discover,  through  the  opaque  window,  which  course  his  cousin 
took  ;  but  the  endeavour  was  quite  unsuccessful.  The  dim 
yellow  pane  preserved  Cuthbert's  secret. 

It  was  past  mid-day  when  Cuthbert  reached  the  busy  road 
to  Port  Dundas.  It  was,  as  usual,  noisy  and  loud,  and 
crowded  with  echoing  carts  on  its  causeway,  and  streams  of 
mill-girls  pouricg  along  its  pavement,  returning  to  the  facto- 
ries after  dinner.  Little  stout  round  forms — faces  sometimes 
sallow,  but  by  no  means  unhealthy — hair  dressed  with  extreme 
regard  to  the  fashion,  and  always  excellently  brushed,  and  in 
the  finest  order — made  these  passengers,  in  their  coloured 
woollen  petticoats  and  bright  short  gowns,  a  very  comely  part 
of  the  street  population.  Very  true  most  of  them  planted 
broad,  sturdy,  bare  feet  upon  the  dusty  pavement ;  but  the 
free  loud  mirth,  no  less  than  the  comfortable  habiliments, 
showed  them  quite  removed  from  the  depressing  effects  of  ex- 
treme poverty — as  indeed  they  were. 

And  opposite  Harry  Muir's  house,  in  the  little  half  fin- 
ished street,  Maggie  McGillivray  still  sat  clipping,  with  her 
brisk  scissors  in  her  hand,  sending  her  loud  clear  voice  into 
the  din  like  an  arrow — and  still  another  branch  of  the  Glas- 
gow feminine  industry  came  under  the  amused  observation  of 
Cuthbert  before  he  reached  the  little  parlour. 

Miss  Aggie  Rodger,  with  her  large  shoulders  bursting 
from  under  the  little  woollen  shawl,  and  a  great  rent  in  the 
skirt  of  her  faded  large-patterned  cotton  gown,  sat  on  the 
highest  step  of  the  stair,  holding  in  her  hand  a  very  dingy 
piece  of  embroidered  muslin,  which  she  was  jerking  about  with 
wonderful  rapidity  as  she  ''  opened  it."  Miss  Aggie,  like  the 
humbler  clipper,  was  lightening  her  task  with  the  solace  of 


42  HARRY    MUIR. 

song  ;  but,  instead  of  the  clear  flowing  canty  "  Learig,"  Miss 
Aggie,  with  great  demonstration,  was  uttering  the  excellences 
of  the  Rose  of  AUandale.  Both  the  natural  voices  were 
tolerably  good ;  but  Cuthbert  thought  he  preferred  Maggie 
McGillivray's. 

In  the  little  '•  green,"  to  which  the  paved  passage  from  the 
street  directly  led,  Miss  Rodger,  the  elder  sister,  was  laying 
out  the  collars  and  caps  of  the  family  to  bleach.  Miss  Rodger 
was,  in  her  way,  a  very  proud  person,  and  had  a  severe  care- 
worn face,  which,  six  or  seven  years  ago,  had  been  pretty. 
From  the  green,  Cuthbert  heard  her  addressing  her  sister : 

••  Aggie,  baud  your  tongue.  Folk  would  think  to  see  ye 
that  you  kent  nae  better  than  the  like  of  that  lassie  McGilliv- 
ray.     They'll  hear  ye  on  the  street." 

"  Ye  can  shut  to  the  door,  if  ye're  so  proud,"  responded 
Miss  Aggie,  drawing  out  the  long  quavers  of  her  song  with 
unabated  zeal. 

Miss  Jeanie,  the  prim  intermediate  sister,  looked  out  from 
the  kitchen  window,  and  interrupted  the  dialogue  in  a  vehe- 
ment whisper : — "  Aggie,  will  ye  come  out  of  that,  and  no  let 
yoursel  be  seen,  such  a  like  sicht  as  ye  are  1  do  ye  no  see  the 
gentleman  ?  " 

Miss  Aggie  looked  up — saw  Cuthbert  standing  below — 
and,  snatching  up  the  torn  skirt  of  her  gown  in  her  hand,  fled 
precipitately,  leaving  behind  her  a  considerable-sized  dilapi- 
dated slipper,  trodden  at  the  heel,  which  had  escaped  from 
her  foot  in  her  flight. 

"  I've  lost  yin  o'  my  bauchals.  Throw  it  into  us,  woman 
Jean — what  will  the  strange  man  think?  "  cried  Miss  Aggie, 
disconsolately,  as  she  reached  the   safe  refuge  of  the  kitchen. 

Miss  Jeanie  was  dressed — for  this  was  the  day  on  which 
they  carried  home  their  finished  work  to  the  warehouse  which 
supplied  them.  Miss  Jeanie  was  very  prim,  and  had  a  little 
mouth,  which  she  showed  her  appreciation  of,  as  the  one  ex- 
cellent feature  of  her  tolerable  face,  by  drawing  her  lips  to- 
gether, and  making  them  round.  She  was  magnificently  ar- 
rayed in  a  purple  silk  gown,  bound  round  the  waist  with  a 
silken  cord,  from  which  hung  a  superb  pair  of  tassels.  This 
dress  was  by  far  the  grandest  article  of  apparel  in  the  house  ; 
and  with  great  awe  and  veneration,  Violet  Muir  had  just  inti- 
mated to  her  sisters,  that  Miss  Jeanie  was  going  to  the  ware- 
house, and  that  she  had  on  her  Adelaide  silk  gown.  Adroitly 
extending  the  skirt  of  this  robe  of  state  to  cover  the  unlucky 


HARRY    MUIR.  43 

"  bauclial ''  of  Miss  Aggie,  Miss  Jeanie  primly  stood  by  the 
open  door,  admitting  the  visitor,  and  Cuthbert  entered  with- 
out making  any  further  acquaintance  with  the  family. 

The  same  universal  feminine  work  re-appeared  in  the  par- 
lour, where  Martha  sat  by  the  window  in  her  usual  place,  busy 
with  her  usual  occupation,  while  Kose,  seated  by  the  table,  and 
occasionally  pausing  to  glance  down  upon  an  open  book  which 
lay  before  her,  listened  with  a  smile,  half  of  pleasure,  half  of 
amusement,  as  Violet,  standing  by  her  side,  with  a  glow  upon 
her  little  pale  face,  poured  forth  page  after  page  of  the  Bridal 
of  Triermain.  Martha,  too,  raised  her  eyes  now  and  then, 
with  a  smile  of  playful  love  in  them — for  little  Lottie's  low- 
voiced  intense  utterance,  and  enthusiasm,  refreshed  and  pleased 
the  heart  which  knew  so  many  harder  sorrows  than  the  evils 
of  romance.  Rose  was  Violet's  governess ;  in  an  evil  hour 
the  young  teacher  had  bidden  her  pupil  choose  any  poetry  she 
liked  for  her  task,  and  learn  as  much  of  it  as  pleased  her. 
Now  Violet  did  at  that  time  particularly  afiect  the  minstrelsy 
of  Sir  Walter,  and  the  result  was,  that  already  one  canto  of 
Triermain  had  been  accomplished,  and  another,  and  another, 
remained  to  say. 

Out  of  doors  in  the  sunshine,  Maggie  McGillivray  sung 
the  "  Learig,"  and  with  a  gay  flourish  of  her  shears  accompa- 
nied the  swell  of  the  •'  Owerword,"  as  she  ended  every  verse. 
At  the  window  in  the  kitchen.  Miss  Aggie  Rodger  sat  in  a 
heap  upon  the  table,  and  stayed  her  needle  in  mid-course, 
while  she  accomplished  the  Ro-o-se  of  A-ah-allandale  ;  and 
within  here  the  little  form  of  Violet  expanded,  and  her  small 
face  glowed,  as  her  story  progressed ;  while  Rose  smiled  and 
worked,  and  glanced  at  the  book  ;  and  Martha,  with  fresh  and 
genuine  pleasure,  listened  and  looked  on.  After  all,  the  gift 
of  song  is  a  fair  gift  to  this  laborious  world.  There  was  noth- 
ing very  grand  or  elevated  in  either  the  ballads  or  the  fable, 
yet  enough  to  stir  the  heart,  and  keep  the  busy  hands  from 
weariness — and  to  do  that,  is  to  do  well  and  merit  a  hearty 
blessing  of  the  world. 

Cuthbert  was  loth  to  disturb  this  pretty  home  scene,  as  he 
did  at  his  entrance  ;  but  notwithstanding,  Cuthbert  was  very 
well  satisfied  with  the  bright  surprise  and  shy  pleasure,  which 
one  at  least  of  the  little  group  displayed,  and  took  his  place 
among  them  like  an  old  friend.  Violet's  copy-book  lay  opesi 
on  the  table  ;  and  Violet  made  very  bad  pot-hooks  indeed, 
and  hated  the  copy  intensely,  though  she  liked  the  poetry. 


44  HARRY    MUIR. 

The  copy  lines  set  for  her  were  not  very  beautiful  either, 
though  they  were  written  in  a  good,  sensible,  female  hand, 
which  had  some  individuality  in  it,  and  was  not  of  the  fashion- 
able stylo.  Such  copy  lines  !  stray  lines  out  of  books,  as  di- 
verse and  miscellaneous  as  could  be  collected,  differing  most 
widely  from  those  sublime,  severe,  abstract  propositions,  which 
in  common  cases  introduce  the  youthful  student  to  wisdom 
and  half-text.  Cuthbert  could  not  help  a  visible  smile  as  he 
glanced  over  them. 

"  I  have  interrupted  my  little  friend's  lesson,"  said  Charte- 
ris,  as  he  laid  down  the  book. 

Rose  was  shy  of  him.     She  did  not  answer. 

"  Violet  has  a  great  appetite  for  verse,"  said  Martha  ;  "  we 
shall  have  all  the  rest  of  it  at  night." 

"  Triermain."  Cuthbert  was  a  little  surprised  that  the 
child  should  be  so  far  advanced — innocent  Cuthbert  !  he  did 
not  know  what  a  host  of  books,  of  all  kinds  and  classes,  the 
little  Violet  had  devoured  already. 

••  How  is  Mr.  Muir  ?  "  asked  Cuthbert.  "  I  heard  at  the 
office  he  was  not  at  home,  and  I  was  very  glad  to  find  that  he 
was  able  for  travelling.  Have  you  heard  from  him  1  How 
is  he?" 

"  He  is  getting  strong  rapidly,  Agnes  writes,"  said  Martha. 
"  They  are  with  my  uncle  in  Ayr.  We  were  brought  up 
there,  all  of  us,  and  so  we  say  Harry  has  gone  home.  I  hope 
it  will  strengthen  him — every  way,"  she  added,  with  a  sup- 
pressed sigh. 

"  And  so  you  like  Sir  Walter,  Violet,"  said  Cuthbert ; 
"  come  and  tell  me  what  you  have  read  besides  Triermain." 

Violet  came  shyly  to  his  side,  and  dropped  her  head,  and 
answered  with  bashfulness,  "  I  have  read  them  all." 

"  Ptead  them  all !  not  quite,  I  think — how  many  books 
have  you  read,  altogether?  "  said  the  puzzled  Cuthbert, 

Violet  looked  up  with  mingled  astonishment  and  pity,  and 
opened  her  eyes  wide.  She,  who  had  already  begun  to  look 
at  advertisements  of  books  ;  and  to  tease  Mr.  Syme,  the 
librarian  in  the  Cowcaddens,  about  new  publications,  which  he 
had  never  heard  of,  and  which  in  the  ordinary  course,  would 
not  reach  him  these  hundred  years — she  to  be  asked  how  many 
books  she  had  read  !  Violet  was  amazed  at  the  want  of  appre- 
hension, which  such  a  question  displayed. 

"  I  have  read  a  great  heap — and  1  can  say  the  Lord  of  the 
Isles,  by  heart,  and  bits  of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake." 


HARRY    MUIR.  45 

Cuthbert's  ignorance  had  given  Violet  a  little  courage : 
but  as  she  met  his  eye,  her  head  drooped  again,  and  she  re- 
lapsed into  her  former  shyness. 

'•  And  how  old  arc  you,  Violet  ?  " 

'•  I  will  be  eleven  next  May."  Violet  had  already  had 
very  grave  thoughts  on  this  subject  of  her  age.  It  seemed  a 
stupendous  thing  to  pass  that  tenth  milestone. 

'•  Violet — where  did  you  get  that  pretty  name  of  yours," 
said  Cuthbert,  drawing  his  hand  over  her  small  dark  head. 

"  It  was  my  mother's  name,"  said  the  little  girl  reverently. 

The  conversation  came  to  a  sudden  pause.  Conscious  that 
he  had  a  motive  in  asking  those  seeming  simple  questions, 
Cuthbert  felt  confused,  and  could  not  go  on — so  he  turned  to 
the  copy-book. 

'•  Have  you  written  all  this  yourself,  Violet  ?  " 

He  had  turned  to  the  beginning,  and  there  certainly  was 
to  be  traced  the  formation  of  a  different  hand  from  Violet's — 
the  respectable,  womanly  writing  which  had  placed  those  odd 
copy  lines  on  the  later  pages ;  he  traced  it  as  it  improved, 
through  a  good  many  different  steps  of  progress,  and  at  the 
end  found  a  clear,  good-looking  signature,  proclaiming  it  to  be 
the  work  of  Rose  A.  Muir. 

"  Rose  A.  Muir,"  he  repeated  it  unawares  aloud. 

The  bearer  of  the  name  started  with  a  slight  blush.  Mar- 
tha glanced  at  him  with  grave  scrutiny — and  little  Violet 
looking  admiringly  at  her  sister's  hand-writing,  explained, 
"•  Rose  was  called  after  my  grandmother." 

'•  It  is  not  a  common  name,"  said  Cuthbert,  growing  em- 
barrassed under  the  grave  eye  of  Martha.  "  May  I  ask.  Miss 
Rose,  what  is  represented  by  this  A." 

'•  It  will  be  Annie  or  Alice,  or  some  stupid  woman's  name," 
he  said  to  himself,  while  his  heart  beat  a  little  quicker. 

'•  I  was  called  after  my  grandmother,  Mr.  Charteris,  as 
Lettie  says,  "  said  Rose,  shyly.  "  It  is  Rose  Allenders — that 
was  her  name." 

The  young  man  started  visibly.  He  had  no  idea  of  falling 
on  anything  so  clear  as  this  ;  but  Martha  looked  at  him  with 
sudden  curiosity,  and  he  felt  himself  compelled  to  make  some 
explanation. 

'•  It  is  by  no  means  a  usual  name,  Miss  Muir,"  said  Cuth- 
bert, turning  to  the  elder  sister.  "  I  know  something.  I  am 
slightly  acquainted  with  a  family  called  Allenders.  Did  this 
lady — your  grandmother,  Miss  Rose — come  from  the  east 
countrv  ?  '" 


46  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  I  cannot  tell,  indeed,"  said  Rose.  "  She  died  very  long 
ago— before  any  of  us  were  born." 

"  I  think  they  came  from  London,"  said  Martha  ;  "  I  have 
heard  my  uncle  say  so — there  were  two  sisters  of  them ;  and 
their  father  died  in  Ayr.  Mrs.  Calder,  in  the  old  town,  was 
very  kind  to  the  orphans,  and  took  them  in :  and  there  the 
younger  sister — her  name  was  Violet — died;  and  my  grand-, 
mother  married  Mrs.  Calder's  son.  I  have  heard  she  died 
young  too,  and  called  her  only  child,  who  was  our  mother, 
after  her  little  sister.  It  is  a  sad  story  altogether  ;  but  we 
heard  my  uncle  speak  of  it  often ;  and  I  remember  how  many 
of  the  old  people  in  Ayr  recollected  Rose  Allenders." 

"  My  mother's  name  was  Violet  Calder,"  said  Lettie,  "  but 
I  am  only  plain  Violet.  She  did  not  call  me  after  all  her  name  ; 
but  Rose  has  got  two  names  because  she's  after  my  grand- 
mother." 

"  I  am  going  further  west,"  said  Cuthbert.  "  I  shall  be  in 
Ayr  for  a  day  or  two,  I  believe.  I  think  I  must  ask  you  to 
introduce  me  to  your  uncle,  Miss  Muir." 

"  He  will  be  glad  to  see  you,"  said  Martha,  quietly.  "  But 
if  you  go  now,  you  will  find  Harry  established  there.  Give 
Mr.  Charteris  my  uncle's  address,  Rose — but  indeed  you  hard- 
ly need  that,  for  every  one  knows  my  uncle." 

But  Cuthbert  had  not  the  least  desire  to  meet  Harry  in 
Ayr.  So  he  was  careful  to  excuse  himself,  and  suddenly  dis- 
covered that  he  could  not  be  able  to  make  acquaintance  with 
Alexander  Muir,  the  uncle,  for  a  full  fortnight,  by  which  time 
it  was  certain  that  Harry  must  have  returned. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  There  is  all  hope  in  thee,  sweet  Spring,  sweet  Spring ! 
Dull  voices,  speaking  of  thee,  unawares, 
Bewray  themselves  to  sing. 
For  every  name  thou  hast  such  music  bears  ; 
Whether  'tis  March,  when  all  the  winds  are  gay— 
Or  April,  girlish  in  her  wayward  way — 
Or  sweetest  May." 

Day  by  day  passed,  of  Harry  Muir's  last  bright  week  at  Ayr, 
passed  no  less  happily  to  the  three  sisters,  than  to  himself  and 
his  little  wife — and  at  last,  fresh,  healthful,  and  in  high  spirits, 
the  youthful  couple  and  their  baby  returned  home. 


HARRY    MUIR.  47 

To  walk  to  the  coach-office  to  meet  them,  was  of  itself  a 
jubilee  for  the  home-dvvellers,  and  Mrs.  llodger  herself  held 
the  door  open  for  them,  in  stately  welcome.  Mrs.  Rodger 
was  a  tall  old  woman,  gaunt  and  poverty-stricken,  in  her  dingy 
widow's  cap,  and  black  cotton  gown ;  but  Mrs.  Rodger  had 
been  "  genteel "  once,  and  never  forgot  it.  She  extended  one 
of  her  long  arms,  and  gave  Harry's  hand  a  swing,  as  he  stop- 
ped to  greet  her.  '•  I  was  just  telling  our  weans,"  said  Mrs. 
Rodger,  '■  that  the  house  was  na  like  itself,  wanting  you — and 
I  hope  you  find  your  leg  strong,  Mr.  Muir  ;  bless  me,  how  the 
wee  boy's  grown  !  I  would  scarce  have  kent  him  ;  bring  him 
ben,  Violet,  and  let  the  weans  get  a  look  o'  him.  What  a  size 
he's  turned !  " 

Miss  Aggie,  the  youngest  of  the  aforesaid  weans,  plunged 
out  of  the  kitchen,  and  seized  the  baby  with  loud  expressions 
of  admiration.  The  little  wife  was  easily  flattered  by  praise 
of  that  blue-eyed  boy  of  hers,  and  was  by  no  means  unwilling 
to  accompany  him  herself,  and  exhibit  him  to  the  assembled 
'•  weans  "  in  Mrs.  Rodger's  kitchen. 

This  apartment,  which  answered  all  purposes  to  the  family, 
was  a  good-sized  room,  showing  an  expanse  of  uncovered  floor, 
not  over  clean,  and  a  great  wooden  '•  bunker  "  for  coals,  as 
its  most  noticeable  feature.  The  "  bunker "  is  an  article 
which  belongs  exclusively  to  the  household  arrangements  of 
Glasgow.  This  one  was  not  very  high  as  it  happened,  and  on 
the  corner  of  it  sat  Miss  Jeanie,  her  hands  busy  with  her  work, 
her  feet  deposited  on  a  chair  below.  Miss  Aggie,  in  like  man- 
ner, occupied  a  corner  of  the  table  in  the  window.  Their  work 
required  a  good  deal  of  light,  and  they  were  fettered  by  no 
punctilios  as  to  attitude.  Miss  Rodger,  the  eldest  sister,  flit- 
ted in  and  out  of  a  dark  scullery,  and  withdrawn  as  far  as 
possible  from  the  light  in  the  dusky  corner,  by  the  fireside,  sat 
a  shabby  and  not  very  young  man,  with  shuffling  indolent 
limbs  stretched  across  the  hearth,  and  pins,  the  sole  gathering 
of  his  idleness,  stuck  in  the  lappel  of  his  dusty,  worn  coat,  and 
a  face  that  promised  better  things.  This  was  "  Johnnie,"  as 
they  called  him,  Mrs.  Rodger's  only  son.  Poor  Johnnie  had 
begun  this  sad  manner  of  life  by  a  long  illness,  and  now,  be- 
tween his  rheumatism  and  his  false  shame,  incapable,  as  it 
seemed,  of  any  strenuous  endeavour  to  make  up  for  what  he 
liad  lost,  had  sunk  into  the  state  of  an  indolent  dependant 
upon  the  little  earnings  of  his  sisters.  They  had  their  faults, 
these  women  ;  but  never  one  of  them  murmured  at  tlic  burden 


48  HARRY    MUIR. 

thus  tlirown  upon  them.  Living  very  meanly,  as  they  were 
constrained  to  do,  they  were  still  perfectly  content  to  toil  for 
Johnnie.  It  never  seemed  to  occur  to  them  at  all,  indeed, 
that  the  natural  order  of  things  was  reversed  in  their  case. 
Sometimes,  it  is  true,  there  was  a  quarrel  between  the  mother, 
who  was  a  termagant,  and  the  poor  indolent  shipwrecked  son, 
whose  temper  was  easily  galled,  having  always  this  sore  con- 
sciousness to  bear  it  company ;  but  never  one  of  the  sisters  up- 
braided Johnnie,  or  made  a  merit  of  labouring  for  him. 
Amidst  all  their  vanity,  and  vulgarity,  this  one  feature  elevated 
the  character  of  the  family,  and  gave  to  those  three  very  com- 
mon-place young  women,  a  standing-ground  of  which  no  one 
could  possibly  be  less  conscious  than  they  were  themselves. 

The  large  good-humoured  hoyden,  Miss  Aggie,  danced  the 
baby  in  her  arms,  and  carried  him  to  the  fireside  to  her  bro- 
ther. Poor  Johnnie  took  the  boy  more  gently,  and  praised  him 
to  his  mother's  heart's  content,  while  Violet,  no  longer  shy,  but 
at  present  very  fluent  and  talkative,  stood  by  the  side  of  her 
special  friend  and  ally,  Mr.  John.  The  little  girl  and  the 
poor  indolent  man,  were  on  very  intimate  terms. 

"  I  was  just  telling  our  weans,"  repeated  Mrs.  Rodger, 
" that  the  wee  boy  would  be  just  another  creature  after  awhile 
in  the  country  ;  and  cheeks  like  roses  you've  gotten  yoursel, 
Mrs.  Muir.  It  would  be  unco'  dull  though,  I'm  thinking — if 
it  had  been  the  saut  water — but  it's  no  the  season  for  the  saut 
water.  I  mind  when  Archie  was  living — that's  their  father — 
we  gaed  down  regular  to  Dunsoon,  and  it  was  just  a  pleasure 
to  see  the  weans  when  they  came  hame." 

"  Agnes,  Martha  says  the  tea's  ready,"  said  Violet,  "  and 
I'm  to  carry  little  Harry  ben." 

The  tea-table  in  the  parlour  was  pleasantly  covered,  and 
still  more  pleasantly  surrounded,  and  Agnes's  basket,  which 
the  good  uncle's  own  hands  had  packed,  remained  still  un- 
opened ;  so  the  baby  was  given  over  to  the  safe  keeping  of 
Rose,  and  the  busy  young  wife  began  to  distribute  uncle  San- 
dy's tokens  of  remembrance. 

"  This  pot  of  honey  is  for  you,  Martha, — uncle  Sandy 
thought  you  would  like  to  give  it  to  us  all,  now  and  then,  on 
high  days — and  here  is  a  bottle  of  cream  from  Mrs.  Thomp- 
son, at  the  corner,  and  a  little  silk  handkerchief  to  Rose,  and 
the  last  of  the  apples  to  Violet— and  see  here,  look,  all  of  you, 
look !  " 

Two  little  flower-pots  carefully  packed  with  moss,  one  of 


HAIIRY    MUIR.  49 

them  bearing  a  tuft  of  fragrant  little  violets,  the  other  proudly 
supporting  a  miniature  rose-bush,  with  one  little  bud  just  ap- 
pearing from  its  green  leaves — good,  gentle  uncle  !  lie  had 
been  at  so  much  trouble  getting  this  fairy  rose,  and  cherishing 
it  in  his  little  sitting-room,  till  this  solitary  bud  rewarded  his 
nursing.  It  was  hailed  with  a  burst  of  delight  from  Violet, 
and  by  the  elder  sisters,  with  a  pleasure  which  almost  reached 
to  tears. 

'•  It  is  so  like  my  uncle,"  said  Rose. 

And  then  with  some  happy  excitement,  they  gathered  round 
the  tea-table.  Harry  had  a  great  budget  of  local  news  to 
open,  and  the  blithe  Agnes  interruj)ted  him  every  moment  to 
tell  of  her  first  impressions,  and  new  acquaintance.  There 
had  been  beautiful  weather,  sunny  and  soft  as  it  often  is  in 
the  early  part  of  April,  and  the  young  wife  had  left  all  cares 
behind  her  on  the  grave  shoulders  of  Martha.  Harry  had 
been  so  well,  so  happy,  so  considerate — enjoying  so  thoroughly 
the  simple  pleasures  of  his  old  home,  and  the  society  of  his 
pure,  unsophisticated  uncle — Agnes  thought  she  had  never  been 
so  happy. 

And  Harry's  face  was  sparkling  with  healthful,  blameless 
pleasures.  He  looked  so  man-like,  the  centre  of  their  anxieties 
and  wishes,  and  was  in  reality  so  fresh-hearted,  and  capable  of 
innocent  enjoyment,  that  Martha's  troubled  heart  grew  glad 
over  the  success  of  her  experiment.  He  had  been  home — he 
had  seen  again  in  these  old  scenes,  the  pure  heroic  fancies  of 
his  earliest  youth,  and  many  days  hence  the  anxious  sister 
thought  the  happy  effect  would  remain. 

They  closed  the  evening,  as  it  was  always  closed  in  the 
house  at  Ayr,  with  the  simple  and  devout  worship  of  the 
family.  Harr}',  with  his  fine  mind  so  clear  to-night,  and  hap- 
pily elevated,  a  young  household  priest,  conducted  those  sim- 
ple fervent  devotions — for  the  religious  emotions  were  strong 
within  him.  They  swayed  him  much  sometimes,  as,  unfortu- 
nately other  feelings  swayed  him  at  other  some  ;  but  he  was 
deeply  susceptible  at  all  times  to  all  the  beauty,  all  the  gran- 
deur of  the  holy  faith  he  professed.  The  young  man's  voice 
trembled,  and  his  heart  swelled  as  he  appealed  to  the  Grreat 
Father  for  the  sake  of  the  wonderful  Son.  And  as,  most  hum- 
bly and  earnestly,  he  asked  for  strength  against  temptation, 
the  tears  in  Martha's  eyes  were  tears  of  hope — almost  of  joy. 
She  thought  that  surely  never  again  this  young  ingenuous 
spirit  would  fall-^-never  again  forsake  that  holy  brotherhood 


50  HARRY    MUIR. 

at  whose  head  He  stands,  who  was  once  tempted  for  the  sake 
of  us,  to  defile  its  garments  with  the  mean  sins  of  former  times. 
There  was  a  shadow  of  deep  quiet  upon  all  their  faces  as  they 
rose  from  their  knees,  they  thought  they  had  come  to  the  be- 
ginning of  a  purer,  happier  time.  They,  these  anxious  women, 
thought  so  for  him  ;  and  he,  poor  Harry  !  for  himself,  with 
those  joyous  eyes  of  his,  looked  forward  to  the  future  without 
fear. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  I  was  gay  as  the  other  maidens— all  the  springs  and  hopes  and  youthful  things  of  the 
world  were  like  me :  prithee,  lady,  think  not  I  say  so  out  of  envy  of  your  fair  estate ; 
for  in  good  sooth,  youth  is  estate  enough  for  a  free  heart.  But  before  youth  goes,  troubles 
come — yourself  must  meet  them  anon— and  be  not  fearful,  gentle  one ;  for  it  may  be 
they  will  leave  rare  Avealth  with  you,  and  take  but  a  little  sunshine  away." 

Old  Plat. 

The  next  day  Harry  entered  blithely  upon  his  old  duties 
again.  The  morning  was  sunny  and  bright,  and  Agnes  stood 
at  the  window  with  the  baby,  to  watch  him  as  he  emerged 
from  the  outer  door  below,  and  turned  to  look  up  to  her,  and 
take  off  his  hat  in  playful  salutation.  He  had  a  little  cluster 
of  fresh  spring  primroses,  pulled  last  morning  in  the  Ayr  gar- 
den, gracing  his  buttons-hole,  and  there  was  a  spring  in  his 
step,  and  an  elastic  grace  in  his  manner  as  he  went  away,  that 
made  glad  the  heart  of  the  little  wife.  They  were  all  very 
blithe  this  morning — the  gladness  came  involuntarily  from 
Agnes'  lips  in  the  familiar  form  of  song,  she  sang  to  the  baby — 
she  sang  to  them  all. 

She  was  still  a  girl,  this  pretty  wife  of  Harry  Muir — a  girl 
belonging  to  that  very  large  class,  who  never  discover  that  they 
have  hearts  at  all,  until  they  have  sent  them  forth  on  some 
great  venture,  perilling  all  peace  for  ever.  Agni3s  had  been  a 
very  gay,  perhaps  a  rather  foolish  girl — liking  very  greatly  the 
small  vanities  which  she  could  reach,  and  managing  to  keep 
out  of  sight  the  graver  matters  of  life.  She  knew  what  it  was 
to  be  poor — but  then  she  had  known  that  all  her  life,  and  the 
difficulties  fell  upon  elder  people,  not  on  herself,  and  Agnes 
sailed  over  them  with  innocent  heedlessness.  The  heart 
slumbered  quietly  in  her  bosom — she  scarcely  knew  it  was 
there,  except  when   it  beat  high  sometimes  for   some  small 


HAKKY    MUIK.  51 

merry-making;  scarcely  even  when  she  married  Harry  Muir  . 
were  those  gay  placid  waters  stirred.      She  liked  him  very 
much — she  admired  him  exceedingly — she  was  very  proud  of 
him,  but  still  she  had  not  found  out  her  heart. 

But  when  the  cloud  began  to  steal  over  the  gay  horizon  of 
her  life — when  she  had  to  watch  for  his  coming,  and  tremble 
for  his  weakness,  and  weep  over  his  faults  those  sad  apologetic 
tears,  and  say,  poor  Harry  !  then  this  unknown  existence  be- 
gan to  make  itself  felt  within  the  sobbing  breast  of  the  little, 
pretty,  girlish  wife.  The  sad  and  fatal  weakness,  which  made 
him  in  a  certain  degree  dependent  upon  them — which  aroused 
the  feelings  of  anxious  care,  the  eager  expedients  to  protect  him 
from  himself,  gave  a  new  character  to  Agnes.  In  sad  peril 
now  was  the  happiness  of  this  young,  tender,  sensitive  heart ; 
but  the  danger  that  threatened  it  had  quickened  it  into  con- 
scious life. 

He  went  away  with  smiles,  and  hopeful  freshness  to  his 
daily  labour.  He  came  home,  honestly  wearied,  at  an  earlier 
hour  than  usual,  having  his  conscience  free  of  offence  that  day. 
So  happily  they  all  gathered  about  the  little  tea-table  ;  so  gaily 
Agnes  presided  at  its  tea-making,  and  Martha  placed  on  the 
table  the  little  crystal  vessel  full  of  honey — odorous  honey, 
breathing  out  stories  of  all  the  home  flowers  of  Ayr — so  much 
the  travellers  have  still  to  tell,  and  the  dwellers  at  home  to 
hear. 

'•  And.  now,  Martha,"  said  Harry,  '•  put  on  your  bonnet,  and 
come  out.  I  believe  she  has  never  been  out,  Agnes,  all  the 
time  we  have  been  away." 

••  Yes,  indeed,  Harry — Martha  was  always  at  the  Kirk," 
said  the  literal  Violet. 

''  But  we  are  not  going  to  the  Kirk  to-morrow — come  Mar- 
tha, and  taste  this  April  air." 

Martha  looked  at  her  work.  '•  It  is  a  temptation  Harry ; 
but  I  think  you  had  better  take  Hose — see,  Rose  looks  white 
with  working  so  long,  and  I  have  to  go  to  the  warehouse." 

'•  To  the  Candleriggo  !  "  said  Harry,  laughing.  "  Where 
you  scarcely  can  tell  when  it  is  June  and  when  December ; 
and  if  Rose  is  white,  you  are  absolutely  green  with  sitting 
shut  up  here  so  long — come  Martha." 

It  was  not  very  complimentary,  but  the  pallid  faded  cheek 
of  Martha  actually  bore  to  eyes  which  had  been  in  the  sun- 
shine, a  tinge  of  that  undesirable  hue.  Save  for  the  beneficent 
rest  of  the  Sabbath-day,  and   the  walk  through  the  hushed 

tSBRARt 
UNIVERSmfOFlUiHOSS 


52  HARRY    MUIR. 

streets  to  church,  Martha  had  indeed,  since  her  brother  went 
to  Ayr.  never  been  out  of  doors.  The  luxury  of  sending  Harry 
to  the  pure  home  atmosphere  was  not  a  cheap  one.  She  had 
been  hibouring  for,  while  he  enjoyed  it. 

'-  But  what  if  Mr.  Charteris  comes  ?  "  said  Rose,  with  a 
little  shyness :  no  one  else  seemed  to  remember  that  Mr. 
Charteris  was  to  come. 

"  We  will  not  stay  long,"  said  Harry  ;  "  you  must  keep 
him  till  we  return." 

Rose  seemed  half  inclined  to  go  too  ;  but  she  remembered 
how  often  Martha  had  sent  her  out  to  enjoy  the  walk  which 
she  had  denied  herself ;  and  there  were  a  great  many  "  holes," 
as  those  very  prosaic  sempstresses  called  the  little  spaces  in 
the  centres  of  embroidered  flowers,  at  which  they  worked,  to 
be  finished  before  they  were  returned  to  the  warehouse  to-mor- 
row— so  even  at  the  risk  of  a  little  additional  conversation 
with  the  formidable  Mr.  Charteris,  Rose  made  up  her  mind 
to  stay. 

And  Martha  and  Harry  went  out  alone.  They  were  not 
within  reach  of  any  very  pleasant  place  for  walking,  but  they 
struck  off  through  some  of  those  unsettled  transitional  fields 
which  hang  about  the  outskirts  of  great  towns,  to  the  side  of 
the  canal.  Those  soft  spring  evenings  throw  a  charm  over 
the  common-place  atmosphere  of  even  such  ordinary  haunts 
as  this — and  it  is  wonderful  indeed,  when  one's  eyes  and  heart 
are  in  proper  trim,  how  the  great  sky  itself  alone,  and  the  vast 
world  of  common  air,  in  which  we  breathe,  and  through  which 
human  sounds  come  to  us,  can  suffice  to  refresh  our  minds. 
Nature  is  beautiful  in  every  place. 

The  distant  traffic  of  the  "  Port,"  to  which  this  canal  is 
the  sea ;  the  flutter  of  dingy  sloop  sails,  and  a  far-off  prospect 
of  the  bare  cordage,  and  brief  masts  of  little  Dutch  vessels, 
delivering  their  miscellaneous  cargoes  there,  gave  a  softened 
home  look,  almost  like  the  quiet  harbour  of  some  little  sea- 
port, to  a  scene  which  close  at  hand  could  boast  of  few  advan- 
tages. But  the  air  was  bright  with  the  haze  of  sunset,  and  in 
the  east  the  sky  had  paled  down  to  the  exceeding  calmness 
of  the  eventide,  lying  sileotly  around  its  lengthened  strips 
of  island  cloud  like  an  enchanted  sea.  Dull  and  blank  was 
the  long  level  line  of  water  at  their  feet,  yet  it  was  water  still, 
and  flowed,  or  seemed  to  flow ;  and  along  the  bank  came  the 
steady  tramp  of  those  strong  horses,  led  by  a  noisy  cavalier 
whose  accoutrements  clanked  and  jingled  like  a  steam-engine. 


HARRY    MUIR.  53 

piloting  the  gaily-painted  "  Swift "  boat  from  Edinburgh,  with 
its  crowds  of  impatient  passengers  to  the  end  of  their  tedious 
journey.  These  were  homely  sights — but  the  charmed  atmos- 
phere gave  a  harmony  to  them  all. 

And  there  were  some  trees  upon  this  side  of  the  canal — 
and  grass  as  green  as  though  it  lived  a  country  life,  and  stout 
weeds,  rank  and  vigorous  by  the  side  of  the  way — and  the 
hum  of  the  great  town  came  softly  on  their  ear,  with  here  and 
there  a  distant  sound  breaking  the  inarticulate  hum  of  that 
mass  of  busy  life.  Better  than  all  these,  there  was  such  per- 
fect confidence  between  the  brother  and  sister,  as  had  scarcely 
been  before,  since  he  was  the  unstained  boy,  innocent  and  igno- 
rant, and  she  the  eager  teacher,  putting  forth  a  second  time 
in  this  young  untried  vessel,  the  solemn  venture  of  her  hopes. 
It  was  not  that  Harry  had  anything  to  confide  to  the  anxious 
heart,  which  noted  all  his  thoughts  and  modes  of  feeling  so 
narrowly  ;  but  the  little  daily  things  which  sometimes  have  so 
weighty  a  bearing  upon  the  most  important  matters  of  life  ; 
the  passing  fancies,  the  very  turns  of  expression  which  show 
the  prevailing  tone  of  the  speaker's  mind,  were  so  frankly  visi- 
ble to  the  eye  of  the  watchful  sister,  that  Martha's  heart  re- 
joiced within  her  with  solemn  joy. 

Meanwhile,  Rose  sat  alone  in  the  parlour  doing  her  work, 
somewhat  nervously,  and  hoping  fervently  that  Mr.  Charteris 
would  not  come  till  '"  somebody  was  in  "  to  receive  him. 

The  baby  lay  sound  asleep  in  the  cradle.  Agnes  had  gdne 
down  to  Mrs.  McGarvie  to  negotiate  about  some  washing,  and 
was  at  this  moment  standing  in  Mrs.  McGrarvie's  kitchen,  near 
the  small  table  where  Mrs.  McGarvie  herself,  with  the  kettle 
in  one  hand,  and  a  great  horn  spoon  in  the  other,  was  pouring 
a  stream  of  boiling  water  into  a  bowl  half  filled  with  the 
beautiful  yellow  peasemeal,  which  keeps  the  stomachs  of  Glas- 
gow in  such  superlative  order,  compounding  the  same  into 
brose,  for  the  supper  of  Rab,  who  newly  come  in,  had  just  re- 
moved his  blue  bonnet  from  his  shaggy  red  head  in  honour 
of  his  mother's  visitor.  Mrs.  McGarvie  had  undertaken  the 
washing,  and  Agness  in  her  overflowing  happy  spirits,  was 
telling  her  about  the  journey,  from  which  they  had  just  re- 
turned. 

Violet,  last  of  all,  was  in  Mrs.  Rodgers's  "  big  room,"  a 
very  spacious,  fine  apartment,  which  was  generally  occupied  by 
some  lodger.  They  had  no  tenant  for  it  at  present,  and  were 
this  evening  entertaining  a  party  in  the  large,  lofty,  shabbily- 


54  HARRY    MUIR. 

furnished  dining  room.  Violet  had  gone  in  among  these 
guests  with  the  natural  curiosity  of  a  child,  and  poor  Rose, 
nervously  apprehensive  of  the  coming  of  this  formidable  Mr. 
Charteris,  sat  in  the  parlour  alone. 

Her  busy  fingers  began  to  flag  as  she  filled  up  these 
"  holes  ;"  and  now  and  then,  the  work  dropped  on  her  knee. 
The  ordinary  apprehensions  about  Harry,  which  generally 
formed  the  central  object  of  her  thoughts,  were  pleasantly 
hushed  to-night.  Rose  was  not  thinking  about  anything  par- 
ticular— she  would  have  said  so,  at  least — but  for  all  that, 
long  trains  of  indefinite  fancies  were  flitting  through  her  mind, 
and  her  thick  blunt  needle  was  altogether  stayed  now  and  then 
— only  recovering  in  hysteric  bursts  its  ordinary  movements, 
when  Rose  trembled  to  fancy  that  she  heard  a  step  on  the 
stair.  If  Agnes  would  only  come  in — if  Harry  and  Martha 
were  but  home  again  ! 

At  last  a  step  was  heard  on  the  stair  in  reality.  "  May  be 
it  is  Agnes,"  said  Rose  to  herself  as  her  needle  began  to  fly 
again  through  the  muslin — but  it  was  not  only  Agnes,  it  was 
the  foot  of  a  man — poor  Rose  wondered  if  by  any  possibility 
she  could  run  away. 

And  there  he  was,  this  sad  ogre  whom  Rose  feared,  quietly 
opening  the  parlour  door,  as  if  he  had  some  right  to  be  there. 
Mr.  Charteris  was  almost  as  shy  as  Rose  herself  He  sat 
down  with  pleased  embarrassment,  and  looked  exceedingly 
awkward,  and  spoke  by  no  means  so  sensibly  as  he  was  used 
to  do.  Rose  eagerly  explained  the  reason  why  she  was  alone, 
and  went  to  the  window  in  haste  to  look  for  Agnes. 

Mr.  Charteris'  eye  had  been  caught  by  something  of  a 
very  faded  neutral  hue,  in  a  black  frame,  which  hung  above 
the  mantelpiece.     He  asked  Miss  Rose  if  it  was  embroidery. 

Miss  Rose  was  moved  to  laughter,  and  her  laugh  dispersed 
the  mist  of  shyness  very  pleasantly.  "  It  is  onl}'^  an  old  sam- 
pler of  my  grandmother's,  Mr.  Charteris." 

Mr.  Charteris  rose  to  look  at  it. 

"  There  is  not  much  art  in  it,"  said  Rose,  "  it  seems  that 
all  the  landscapes  on  samplers  are  of  one  style — but  my  mother 
gave  it  to  me  when  I  was  a  girl — a  little  girl — and  I  used  to 
be  proud  of  it,  because  it  was  my  own." 

Mr.  Charteris  took  it  down  to  examine  its  beauties  more 
closely.  It  bore  the  name  of  the  artist  at  full  length,  "  Rose 
Allenders,"  and  had  a  square  house,  and  some  very  original 
trees,  like  the  trees  of  very  old  paintings,  elaborately  worked 
upon  it. 


HARRY    MUIU.  55 

''  I  think  you  said  she  had  been  long  dead,"  said  Cuthbert. 

"  Long  ago — very  long  ago."  said  Rose.  "  When  my 
mother  was  only  a  child,  my  grandmother  died.  Her  name 
is  on  the  stone,  among  the  rest  of  the  Calders,  and  her  father 
and  her  little  sister  are  near  her.  in  the  churchyard.  Uncle 
Sandy  used  to  take  us  there  when  we  were  children.  I  believe 
he  thought  they  would  feel  lonely  in  their  very  graves,  because 
they  lay  among  strangers." 

There  was  a  pause.  Cuthbert  again  hung  up  the  faded 
sampler,  and  Rose  worked  most  industriously  at  her  opening. 
Each  was  earnestly  endeavouring  to  invent  something  to  say 
— and  both  of  them  were  singularly  unsuccessful  It  was  the 
greatest  possible  relief  to  Rose  to  hear  Harry's  voice  in  tbe 
passage. 

The  two  young  men  greeted  each  other  heartily — it  seemed 
that  there  was  some  charm  in  these  very  faults  of  poor  Harry 
— for  everybody  learned  to  like  and  apologise  for,  even  while 
they  blamed  him. 

'•  And  so  you  are  going  to  Ayr,"  said  Harry,  "  why  did  you 
not  come  a  little  earlier,  Mr.  Charteris,  that  I  might  have 
shown  our  town  to  you  ?  You  will  not  appreciate  the  beauties 
it  has.  unless  some  one  native  to  it,  points  them  out." 

'"  For  which  cause  I  am  here  to  seek  an  introduction  which 
Miss  Muir  promised  me  to  your  uncle,"  said  Cuthbert. 

"  To  my  uncle  ?  are  you  a  character  hunter,  Mr.  Charteris  1 " 
said  Harry  quickly,  and  with  something  which  Rose  thought 
looked  like  rudeness. 

"No,  I  don't  think  so — but  why  do  you  ask  me  ?  " 

"  Because  the  vulgar  call  my  uncle  a  character  and  an 
original,"  said  Harry.  '•  I  thought  your  cousin,  who  saw  him 
once,  might  have  told  you  so, — and  he  does  not  like  the  im- 
putation. We  are  jealous  of  my  uncle's  feelings,  as  we  have 
a  good  right  to  be,  for  he  has  been  a  father,  and  teacher,  and 
companion  alike  to  all  of  us." 

"  I  had  some  business  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Ayr,"  said 
Cuthbert,  with  a  little  conscious  embarrassment — "  one  of 
those  things  in  our  profession  that  border  upon  the  romantic, 
— there  are  not  many  of  them,  Miss  Rose  ;  I  want  to  trace  out 
some  links  of  descent — to  find  some  lost  members  of  an  old 
family.  I  shall  find  them  only  by  means  of  gravestones  I  ap- 
prehend, but  that  will  answer  my  purpose.  It  is  not  quite  in 
my  department,  this  kind  of  business :  but  it  is  pleasant  to 
have  some  excuse  for  seeing   so  fine  a  country  in  this  time 


56  HARRY    MUIR. 

when  'folk  are  longen  to  go  on  pilgrimages,' — I  think  you 
must  begin  to  feel  this  longing,  Miss  Muir  ?  " 

"  It  is  wonderful  how  easily  one  can  content  oneself,"  said 
Martha,  with  a  smile  which  spoke  of  singular  peace.  •'  We 
have  only  to  shut  our  eyes.  Rose  and  I,  and  straightway  we 
are  at  home,  or  to  send  some  one  else  to  enjoy  it,  Mr.  Char- 
teris.  Harry  and  Agnes,  have  brought  us  so  much  of  the 
atmosphere  that  I  scarcely  desire  it  now  for  myself" 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  Ay,  even  here,  in  the  close  city  streets, 
'Tis  good  to  see  the  sunset — how  the  light, 
Curious  and  scornful,  thrusts  away  the  masses 
Of  vapour  brooding  o'er  the  busy  town, 
Yet  leaves  a  trace  of  rosy  light  the  while 
Even  on  the  thing  it  scorns. 
And  the  rich  air  gives  sweetness  to  all  sounds ; 
And  hazy  sunbeams  glorify  young  faces — 
And  labour  turns  aside,  glad  of  its  hour 
Of  aimless  idling." 

CuTHBERT  Charteris,  mucli  agaiust  his  will,  was  detained 
a  week  longer  in  Glasgow.  His  uncle,  a  man  of  unbounded 
hospitality,  an  almost  invariable  characteristic  of  his  class,  was 
not  without  a  little  family  pride  in  Cuthbert's  attainments  and 
position — and  such  a  succession  of  people  had  been  already 
invited  to  '-meet"  Mr.  Buchanan's  advocate  nephew,  that 
Cuthbert's  good  humour,  though  already  sufficiently  taxed, 
would  not  suffer  him  to  disappoint  them. — Nether  was  it  until 
the  very  last  evening  of  the  week,  when  he  had  made  positive 
arrangements  for  going  to  Ayr  next  day,  that  he  had  leisure  to 
call  on  the  Muirs. 

The  sun  was  setting  on  the  soft  April  evening,  and  the 
slanting  level  sunbeams  streamed  through  the  dusty  streets, 
drawing  out  in  long  shadows  the  outline  of  the  houses.  With- 
in these  shadows  the  bystanders  felt  almost  the  chill  of  winter, 
while  in  the  sunshine  at  the  street  corners,  lounging  groups 
congratulated  each  other  that  summer  had  come  at  last. 

Here  the  light  fell  on  a  white  '•  mutch"  or  two,  and  on  the 
sun-burnt  heads  of  innumerable  children  of  whose  boisterous 
play  the  gossip  mothers  took  no  notice. — There  it  glimmered 
and  sparkled  in  braids  and  curls,  and  plaits  of  beautiful  hair 


HARRY    MUIR.  5 7 

which  a  coiffeur  might  have  studied  for  the  benefit  of  his  art, 
and  which  you  could  scarcely  fancy  the  short  thick  toil- 
hardened  fingers  of  these  laughing  mill-girls  able  to  produce. 
But  toilsome  as  their  factory  life  was.  it  had  its  edge  of  en- 
joyment, quite  as  bright  and  enlivening  as  the  evening  recrea- 
tions of  any  other  class — and  with  those  young  engineer  work- 
men clustering  around  them,  and  the  evening  sunshine  and 
the  hum  of  continual  sound — sound  which  expressed  repose 
and  sport,  and  scarcely  had  the  least  admixture  of  the  labori- 
ous din  of  full  day — filling  the  atmosphere,  there  were  many 
scenes  less  pleasant  and  less  graceful,  than  the  street  corner 
and  its  groups  of  mill-girls.  And  here,  up  the  broad  road, 
now  almost  free  of  the  carts  which  usually  crowd  it,  dashes  at 
full  speed  a  bright  little  equipage  glowing  in  green  and  gold, 
which  draws  up  with  a  flourish  at  the  corner.  Straightway 
the  "  close  mouths,"  and  "  common  stairs  "  pour  forth  a  stream 
of  girls  and  women,  carrying  vessels  of  every  form  and  size, 
from  the  small  china  cream-jug  from  some  lonely  lady's  tea- 
table  to  the  great  pitcher  under  which  little  Mary  staggers  as 
she  carries  it  home  in  her  arms  to  supply  the  porridge  of  a 
dozen  brothers  and  sisters  ;  and  you  never  were  refreshed 
with  richer  milk  under  the  deepest  umbrage  of  summer  trees, 
than  that  which  gives  forth  its  balmy  streams  from  the  pretty 
green  barrels  hooped  with  brilliant  brass,  which  rest  upon  the 
light  framework  of  the  Port  Dundas  dairy  cart. 

Rose  Muir  stood  at  the  door  as  Cuthbert  approached — he 
had  chosen  a  later  hour  than  usual  for  his  visit,  that  he  might 
not  disturb  them  at  their  simple  evening  meal — but  as  he 
glanced  at  the  downcast  face  of  Rose,  over  which  an  uneasy 
colour  was  flushing,  he  saw  that  the  old  anxiety,  the  origin  of 
which  he  had  guessed  at  before,  had  now  again  returned.  The 
long  wistful  glances  she  cast  along  the  street — the  eager 
expectant  look  with  which  she  turned  to  himself — once  before 
the  herald  of  poor  Harry — would  have  almost  sufficed  to 
reveal  the  secret  of  the  family  to  Cuthbert  had  he  not  guessed 
it  before. 

'•  Harry  has  not  come  home  yet,"  said  Rose,  with  an 
unconscious  apology  in  her  tone ;  *'  they  are  sometimes  kept 
very  late  at  the  office — but  my  sisters  are  up  stairs,  Mr. 
Charteris.  will  you  come  in?" 

Cuthbert  followed  her  silently.  He  had  become  so  much 
interested  in  the  fortunes  of  the  family,  that  he  felt  his  own 
3* 


55  HARRY    MUIR. 

heart  sink,  as  he  remembered  that  "  the  office"  had  been 
closed  a  full  hour  ago. 

Agnes  was  alone  when  they  entered  the  parlour,  and 
Cuthbert,  roused  to  observation,  saw  her  sudden  start  as  they 
opened  the  door,  and  the  pallor  and  sickness  of  disappoint- 
ment which  came  over  her  pretty  youthful  face,  when  her  eye 
fell  upon  himself  The  work  she  had  been  busy  with,  fell 
from  the  fingers  which  seemed  for  the  moment  too  nervous  to 
hold  it.  The  little  wife  had  been  so  confident — so  sure  of 
Harry's  reformation. — and  her  heart  was  throbbing  now  with 
a  positive  agony  of  mingled  fear  and  hope. 

Cuthbert  seated  himself  on  the  sofa,  and  began  to  talk  of 
the  baby — it  was  almost  the  only  subject  which  could  soothe 
the  young  mother — but  even  while  he  spoke,  he  could  see  how 
nervously  awake  they  both  were  to  every  sound ;  how  Rose 
suspended  her  work  and  held  her  breath  at  every  footstep  in 
the  street  below  which  seemed  to  approach  the  door — and  how 
the  needle  stumbled  in  .the  small  fingers  of  Agnes,  and  the 
unusual  colour  flickered  on  her  cheek. 

"  You  are  very  late,  Harry."  said  Martha,  entering  from 
the  inner  room — Cuthbert's  back  was  towards  her — she 
thought  it  was  her  brother. 

"  It  is  Mr.  Charteris,  Martha,"  said  Rose. 

There  was  a  fiery  light  in  Martha's  eyes — an  impatience 
almost  fierce  in  the  evident  pang  and  short  suppressed  excla- 
mation with  which  she  discovered  her  mistake.  She  too  had 
been  strong  in  her  renewed  hope — had  began  to  rest  with  a 
kind  of  confidence  in  the  changed  mind  of  Harry. 

But  now  the  former  chafing  had  commenced  again,  and 
the  bitter  hopelessness  which  once  before  overpowered  her, 
returned  upon  her  heart — Cuthbert  thought  of  the  old  grand 
picture  of  the  bound  Prometheus — of  the  lurid  background, 
and  the  cold  tints  of  the  captive  figure,  rigid  in  his  manacled 
strength,  with  the  vulture  at  his  heart.  Bitterest  of  dooms, 
to  be  bound  to  this  misery,  without  one  free  hand  to  struggle 
against  it. 

But  Martha  took  her  seat  in  silence,  and  a  conversation 
was  very  languidly  carried  on.  Insensibly  Cuthbert  felt  the 
same  anxiety  steal  over  himself — he  felt  that  he  ought  to  go 
away,  but  yet  he  remained.  By  degrees  the  conversation 
dwindled  into  broken  remarks  from  himself,  and  faltering 
responses  from  Rose  and  Agnes ;  sometimes  indeed  Martha 
spoke,  but  her  words  were  harsh  and  bitter,  or  else  full  of  a 


HARRY    MUIR.  59 

conscious  mockery  of  light-heartedness,  which  was  more  pain- 
ful still. 

The  tea-tray  with  its  homely  accompaniments  stood  on  the 
table — the  little  kettle  sang  by  the  side  of  the  old-fashioned 
grate — but  the  night  was  now  far  advanced  and  reluctant  to 
shut  out  the  lingering  remains  of  daylight,  the  sisters  had  laid 
aside  their  work ;  it  was  almost  dark  and  still  Harry  had  not 
come. 

"  Where  is  Violet,  Agnes  ? "  said  Martha  after  a  long 
silence. 

"  She  went  out  to  play,"  said  the  little  wife.  "  Some  of 
her  friends  were  down  here,  and  they  wanted  her.  I  could 
not  keep  Lettie  in,  Martha,  on  so  fine  a  night." 

'•  I  was  angry  at  the  poor  bairn,"  said  Martha,  with  a 
singular  humility,  "  I  did  wrong.  I  will  go  myself  and  look 
for  her — our  troubles  are  not  so  few  that  we  should  make 
additions  to  them  of  our  own  will." 

There  was  a  strange  pathos  in  the  low  tone  in  which 
Martha  spoke,  and  in  the  sudden  melting  of  the  strained 
vehement  heart.  Cuthbert  saw  the  trembling  hand  of  Agnes 
steal  up  to  her  eyes,  and  heard  the  appealing  deprecatory 
whisper  of  Rose,  '•  Oh  Martha  !  "  He  could  see  its  meaning 
— he  could  hear  in  it  an  echo  of  that  other  exclamation — 
poor  Harry  !  so  common  in  this  house. 

Little  Violet  had  been  at  play  in  the  street  below,  carry- 
ing the  vague  blank  grief  of  childhood  into  her  very  sport. 
As  Martha  rose,  the  little  girl  suddenly  burst  into  the  room. 
"  Agnes,  Harry's  coming." 

They  were  all  very  quiet — a  sort  of  hush  of  deep  appre- 
hension came  upon  the  sisters,  and  Rose  went  out  hastily  to 
the  door. 

In  another  moment,  Harry  had  entered  the  room — look- 
ing very  pale,  and  with  an  unmeaning  smile  upon  his  face. 
He  came  forward  with  great  demonstration  to  greet  Charteris, 
and  hurried  over  an  elaborate  account  of  things  which  had 
detained  him — the  strangest  complication  of  causes,  such  as 
came  in  no  one's  way  but  his. 

"  Why  don't  you  light  the  candles  ?  "  said  poor  Harry, 
with  an  ostentatious  endeavour  at  high  spirits.  "  Have  you 
been  sitting  in  the  dark  like  so  many  crows  ?  Rosie,  quick 
light  this,  and  get  another  candle.  You  don't  think  we  can 
see  with  one,  and  Mr.  Charteris  here.  Have  you  not  got  tea 
yet.  Agnes  ?    Nonsense,  what  made  you  wait  for  me  ?     1  can't 


60  HARRY    MUIR. 

always  be  home  at  your  hours,  you  know — when  a  man  hasn't 
his  time  at  his  own  disposal,  you  know,  Mr.  Charteris — what 
is  it  now  ? — what  do  you  want,  Lettie  1  " 

The  solitary  candle  had  been  lighted,  and  placed  on  the 
table.  It  threw  a  painful  illumination  upon  Harry's  perfectly 
colourless  face,  as  he  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  with 
an  unsteady  swing  in  his  movements.  Agnes  had  left  the 
arm-chair  to  him.  but  still  he  stood  by  the  table — while  Rose, 
with  a  paleness  almost  as  great  as  his  upon  her  face,  went 
about  painfully  arranging  things  that  needed  no  arrangement, 
and  Martha  sat  rigid  in  her  chair. 

"  I  say,  what  is  it,  Lettie  ?  "    repeated  Harry. 

"  Nothing,  Harry — only  you've  torn  your  coat,"  said 
Violet. 

She  showed  it  to  him — some  one  had  seized  his  skirt  appa- 
rently to  detain  him,  and  a  great  rent  was  visible.  It  brought 
a  sudden  flush  to  the  damp  face  of  poor  Harry,  but  the  flush 
was  of  defiance  and  anger.  He  struck  Violet  with  his  open 
hand,  and  exclaimed  impatiently,  "  Get  away,  what  business 
have  you  with  that  7  " 

It  was  a  very  slight  blow — and  Violet  shrank  away  in  si- 
lence out  of  the  room  ;  but  a  deep  red  burning  colour  flushed 
over  Martha's  faded  face,  and  with  a  quick  impulsive  start  she 
rose  from  her  chair. 

"  Harry  !  "  Her  harsh  hoarse  voice  seemed  to  sober  the  un- 
happy lad.  He  looked  round  him  for  a  moment  on  those  other 
pale  faces,  and  on  the  grieved  and  embarrassed  Cuthbert,  with 
the  defiant  stare  which  he  had  tried  to  maintain  before :  but  as 
his  eyes  turned  to  Martha,  and  to  the  deep  and  painful  colour 
of  shame  and  anguish  on  her  face,  poor  Harry's  courage  fell. 
He  did  not  speak — he  glided  into  the  vacant  chair,  and  sud- 
denly abandoning  his  poor  design  of  concealment  covered  his 
face  with  his  hands. 
•  '•  Harry  is  not  well — he  is  not  strong,  poor  fellow,"  said 
Agnes,  almost  sobbing,  "  get  a  cup  of  tea  for  him,  Rose. 
Martha,  sit  down." 

Martha  obeyed  mechanically.  There  was  a  struggle  in 
the  face  of  poor  Harry's  passionate  sister.  The  fierce  impa- 
tience of  her  anger  seemed  melting  away — melting  into  that 
utter  despondency  and  hopelessness — that  deep  humiliation, 
which  with  the  second  sight  that  sometimes  adds  new  pangs 
to  sorrow,  saw  that  to  hope  was  useless,  and  yet  in  the  depths 
did   only   cling   the   closer    to    this    impossible    hope.      Poor 


HARRY   MUIR.  61 

Harry  !  Martha  was  not  giveu  to  weeping,  but  then  she  could 
have  wept  such  desperate  burning  tears,  as  only  come  out  of 
the  depths. 

Cuthbert  felt  that  if  he  had  helped  to  increase  their  pain 
by  being  a  spectator  of  this  scene,  he  would  but  add  to  it  by 
hastening  immediately  away. 

"  I  shall  have  a  long  walk,"  he  said,  with  forced  ease,  "  and 
I  think  I  must  now  crave  your  last  message  for  Ayr,  Miss 
Muir.     What  am  I  to  say  to  your  uncle?  " 

"  That  you  left  us — nay,"  said  Martha,  restraining  herself 
with  a  great  effort,  and  glancing  over  to  Harry  with  a  strange 
yearning  look  of  grief,  ''•  say  little  to  the  old  man,  Mr.  Char- 
teris.  He  knows  how  he  would  wish  us  to  be  in  his  own 
gentle  heart — and  it  is  best  to  leave  it  so  ;  say  we  were  well 
— and  now  we  must  not  detain  you.  Harry,  have  you  any- 
thing to  say  to  my  uncle  1 " 

Poor  Harry  uncovered  his  white,  unhappy  face.  "I? — 
nothing — nothing — you  know  I  have  nothing  to  say — good- 
bye, Mr.  Charteris." 

'•  It  is  so  short  a  time  since  we  left  Ayr,"  said  Agnes,  offer- 
ing Cuthbert  her  trembling  hand. 

And  then  he  left  the  room. 

The  lobby  was  quite  dark.  Cuthbert  fancied  he  heard 
some  sound  like  a  suppressed  sob  as  Rose  stole  out  after  him, 
and  closed  the  parlour  door.  It  was  Violet  sitting  in  gloom 
and  solitude  on  the  ground,  with  her  little  desolate  heart  well 
nigh  bursting.  Martha  had  been  displeased  at  her.  Harry 
had  struck  her — and  fearful  dreams  of  being  utterly  alone, 
and  having  no  one  in  the  world  to  care  for  her,  were  passing 
drearily  through  Violet's  mind.  That  sad  dumb  anguish  of 
the  child,  which  we  do  not  seem  ever  to  remember  when  we 
have  children  to  deal  with,  weighed  down  the  young  spirit  to 
the  very  dust.  She  thought,  poor  solitary  girl,  miserable 
proud  thoughts  of  dying,  and  leaving  them  to  grieve  for  her 
when  she  was  dead,  who  would  not  care  for  her  enough  when 
she  was  living — and  she  thought,  too,  of  toiling  on  alone  to 
the  vague  greatness  which  children  dream  of,  and  shutting  up 
her  heart  in  her  solitary  course,  from  those  who  had  chilled 
and  rejected  it  so  early.  Poor  little  dreaming  inconsistent 
poetic  child,  who  in  an  hour  could  be  bright  as  the  sunshine 
again — but  while  it  lasted  there  were  few  things  in  elder  life 
so  bitter  as  that  childish  pain. 

Rose  lifted  her  up  and  followed  Charteris  to  the  door,  hold- 


62  HARRY    MUIR. 

iug  the  weeping  and  reluctant  Violet  within  her  arm.  ''  Mr. 
Charteris,"  said  Rose  eagerly,  "  do  not  say  anything  to  my 
uncle  about — .  I  mean,  will  you  just  tell  him  we  are  well, 
and  not  say  that  anything  ails  Harry  ?  Will  you,  Mr.  Char- 
teris ?  " 

Cuthbert  did  not  quite  know  what  he  answered,  neither 
did  Rose  ;  but  whatever  it  was  it  cheered  her ;  and  as  he 
went  away,  the  youthful  woman  lingered  in  the  darkness, 
stooping  over  the  child.  Rose  had  reached  a  further  stage 
than  Violet  in  this  grave  journey  of  life;  and  if  she  knew 
more  fully  the  absolute  causes  of  the  family  aflSiciion,  she  had 
outgrown  the  indefinite  gloom  and  terror.  Other  thoughts, 
too,  came  in  to  lighten,  in  some  degree,  the  heaviness  of  her 
own  heart,  as  she  soothed  and  consoled  her  little  sister.  Harr}^ 
hitherto  had  been  constantly  the  central  object  in  her  mind — 
the  dearest  always,  and  in  his  brightest  times  the  best — per- 
haps only  the  more  endeared  for  all  his  weakness ;  but  now 
there  began  to  dawn  upon  Rose  a  stronger,  purer,  higher  ideal. 
Stealthy  and  tremulous  the  thought  glided  into  her  mind  ;  a 
higher  excellence  than  poor  Harry's — a  fairer  fate  than  that 
of  Harry's  sister.  She  put  it  away  as  if  it  had  been  guilt ; 
but  still  it  had  looked  in  upon  her,  and  left  a  trace  of  secret 
sunshine  behind. 

Thus  they  were,  the  child  and  the  girl — Violet  already 
cheered  by  the  gentle  voice  of  Rose,  and  Rose  lightened  with 
the  fair  fantastic  light  of  her  own  thick-coming  fancies. 
Neither  forgot  the  sorrow  which  was  parted  from  them  only 
by  these  slight  walls — neither  yet  could  stay  their  involuntary 
tears — and  the  elder  heart  overflowed  with  pity  and  tenderness 
for  poor  Harry ;  but  yet  there  were  others  than  Harry  in  the 
world  for  both. 

Within  that  little  room  it  was  far  otherwise.  He  was 
sitting  there  still,  his  clasped  hands  covering  his  face,  and  the 
cup  of  tea,  which  Agnes  had  poured  out  for  him,  standing  un- 
tasted  on  the  table.  No  one  else  had  thought  of  beginning 
this  joyless  meal.  Agnes  sat  near  him,  leaning  her  arm 
upon  his  chair,  touching  his  shoulder  sometimes,  and  murmur- 
ing, -'Harry;"  but  he  had  not  lifted  his  head.  Opposite 
him,  Martha  sat  very  still,  her  eyes  wandering  about,  her 
fingers  convulsively  clasped,  her  features  moving.  Sometimes 
she  started  suddenly,  as  if  she  could  have  dashed  that  aching 
brow  of  hers  against  the  wall  ;  sometimes  a  low  unconscious 
moan  escaped  from  her  lips  ;  and  when,  after  wandering  round 


HARRY    MUIR.  63 

the  room,  noting  the  little  well-known  peculiarities  of  its  fur- 
niture, as  people  only  do  in  their  bitterest  moments,  her  eyes 
turned  to  Harry  lying  motionless  in  his  chair,  with  the  damp 
hair  clustering  upon  his  brow,  and  his  hands  hiding  his  face, 
the  anger  and  passion  fled  away  from  her  brow  like  shadows. 
Poor  Harry  !  in  his  weakness,  in  his  sin — only  so  much  the 
more  her  own — not  the  strong  man  now,  for  whom  she  had 
woven  dreams  of  fond  and  proud  ambition — but  ever  and 
always  the  dependent  boy,  the  child  she  tended  long  ago — the 
unhappy  lad  over  whom  her  heart  yearned  now  as  a  mother. 
Martha  rose — the  tears  came  out  from  under  her  dry  eyelids 
— a  sad  smile  dawned  upon  the  stern  harsh  features  of  her 
face.      She  laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

'"  Harry,  Harry,  is  it  worth  all  this  misery?  We  have 
nothing  but  you — no  hope  in  this  world  but  you.  Will  you 
take  it  from  us,  Harry  1     Will  you  make  us  desolate  ? " 

The  little  wife  looked  up  through  her  tears,  begging  for- 
bearance. Poor  Harry  himself  lifted  his  head,  and  grasped 
the  hands  she  held  out  to  him.     "  Never  again — never  again." 

Her  tears  fell  upon  the  clasped  hands,  and  so  did  his. 
'■  Never  again."  Violet  crept  to  his  side,  and  softly  laid  her 
little  hand  upon  his  arm.  Agnes,  weeping  quietly,  rested  her 
head  upon  his  shoulder,  almost  happy  again  in  the  reconcili- 
ation ;  and  Rose  stood  behind  his  chair. 

Poor  Harry  !  They  all  heard  his  vow  ;  they  all  tried  to 
take  up  their  hope,  and  once  more  look  fearlessly  on  the  future. 
No  one  believed  more  devoutly  than  he  did  himself  that  now 
he  could  not  fall  again.  No  one  was  so  confident  as  he  that 
this  sin  was  his  last :  "  Never  again."  Heavy,  unseen  tears 
flowed  from  under  Martha's  closed  eyelids  that  night,  when  all 
the  rest  were  peacefully  asleep — poor  Harry  first  of  all.  Never 
again  !  The  words  moved  her  to  anything  but  hope.  Poor 
Harry  ! 


64  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER  XL 

"  "Winter hath  many  days  most  like  to  Spring; 
Soft  thawing  -vvinil^  and  rains  like  dew,  and  gleams 
Of  sweet  inconstant  sunshine. — I  have  seen 
An  old  man's  heart  that  ne'er  was  done  with  seedtime, 
Abiding  in  its  gracious  youth  for  ever." 

The  next  morning  very  early,  while  Martha  Muir,  unable  to 
rest,  sat  at  the  window,  carefully  mending  the  torn  coat  which 
was  poor  Harry's  only  one,  Cuthbert  Charteris  set  out  on  the 
top  of  the  coach  for  Ayr.  What  he  had  seen  on  the  previous 
night  oppressed  him  heavily,  weighing  down  even  the  natural 
exhilaration  which  the  morning  sunshine  usually  brought  to  a 
mind  void  of  offence  towards  men,  and  walking  by  faith  hum- 
bly with  God.  Continually  that  scene  rose  up  before  him — 
the  hidden  tears  and  trembling  of  Agnes  and  Rose — the  stern 
agitation  of  Martha — the  fatuous  smile  upon  poor  Harry's 
white  conscious  face.  "  Poor  Harry  ! "  the  stranger  echoed 
with  emotion,  the  sad  tenderness  of  this  lamentation  so  familiar 
to  Harry's  nearest  friends. 

Harry,  meanwhile,  was  peacefully  asleep,  unconscious  of  the 
hopeless  musing  of  his  sister,  as  she  sat  by  the  window  not 
long  after  sunrise,  doing  this  sad  jDiece  of  work  for  him,  and  of 
the  gloom  which  he  cast  over  the  happier  mind  of  his  friend ; 
a  common  case — almost  too  common  to  need  recording. 

It  was  the  afternoon  before  Charteris  left  his  inn  to  seek 
the  house  of  Alexander  Muir.  In  the  intermediate  time  he 
had  been  wandering  about  the  town,  and  hunting  through  one 
old  churchyard  which  lay  in  his  way  for  the  graves  of  the  AUen- 
ders ;  but  his  search  was  not  successful.  The  afternoon  was 
bright  and  warm,  the  month  being  now  far  advanced,  and  he 
was  directed  easily  to  the  residence  of  the  old  man  whom 
everybody  seemed  to  know.  It  was  in  one  of  the  quiet  back 
streets  of  the  town,  a  narrow-causewayed  lane,  kept  in  a  kind 
of  constant  twilight  by  the  shadows  of  tall  houses.  The  house 
he  sought  was  not  tall — a  low  door  opened  immediately  from 
the  rough  stones  of  the  street;  and  on  either  side  was  a  square 
window  fortified  with  strong  panes  of  greenish  glass,  which  gave 
a   hue   by  no  means  delightful   to  the  little  checked-muslin 


HARRY    MUIR.  65 

blinds  within.  The  upper  story  was  a  separate  house,  and  had 
an  outside  stair  ascending  to  it,  which  stair  darkened  the 
lower  door,  and  served  as  a  sort  of  porch,  supported  on  the 
further  side  by  a  rude  pillar  of  mason-work.  Outhbert  thought 
it  a  very  dim  dusky  habitation  for  the  gentle  uncle  of  the 
Muirs. 

A  little  maid-servant,  with  a  striped  red  and  black  woollen 
petticoat  and  "short  gown"  of  bright  printed  cotton  opened 
the  door  for  him.  Descending  a  single  step,  Outhbert  entered 
a  narrow  passage  at  the  end  of  which  was  another  open  door, 
with  a  bright  prospect  of  trees,  and  flowers,  and  sunshine  be- 
yond. The  lobby  was  paved  with  brick,  very  red  and  clean, 
which  the  little  servant  seemed  just  to  have  finished  scouring  ; 
and  an  open  door  on  one  side  of  it  gave  him  a  glimpse  of  a 
trim  bed-chamber,  with  flowers  on  its  little  dressing-table ;  on 
the  other  side  was  another  door  (closed)  of  another  bed-room  ; 
and,  looking  to  the  garden,  the  kitchen  and  the  little  parlour 
occupied  the  further  side  of  the  house. 

"  Will  ye  just  gang  in,  sir,"  said  the  girl,  removing  her  pail 
out  of  Cuthbert's  way ;  ''  ye'll  get  him  in  the  garden  himsel." 

Outhbert  obeyed,  and  passed  by  himself  to  the  other  door. 

A  very  singular  scene  awaited  him  there.  The  garden  was 
a  large  one,  and  formed  the  greatest  possible  contrast  to  the 
dusky  front  of  the  house.  Apple-trees  in  full  blossom,  and  a 
bright  congregation  of  all  the  flowers  of  spring,  surrounded  the 
more  homely  produce  in  which  the  large  enclosure  seemed 
rich.  The  door  was  matted  round  with  climbing  plants,  roses, 
and  honey-suckles,  which,  in  a  month  or  two,  would  be  as 
bright  and  fragrant  as  now  they  were  green  ;  and  a  splendid 
pear-tree,  flushed  with  blossom,  covered  one  entire  side  of  the 
house. 

But  the  animate  parts  of  the  picture  were  still  more  remarka- 
ble— scattered  through  the  garden  in  groups,  but  principally 
here  near  the  door  where  some  fine  trees  sheltered,  and  the 
sun  shone  upon  them,  were  a  number  of  girls,  from  fourteen  to 
twenty,  working  the  Ayrshire  work  as  it  is  called — to  wit,  the 
fine  embroideries  on  muslin,  which  the  Muirs  "  opened  " — and 
talking,  as  girls  generally  talk,  very  happily  and  gaily — with 
snatches  of  song,  and  pleasant  laughter.  They  had  all  the 
average  good  looks,  and  were  dressed  becomingly  as  girls  in 
their  class,  who  maintain  themselves  by  needlework,  generally 
are.  Oompletely  astonished  at  first,  Outhbert  became  amused 
and  interested  in  the  scene  as  he  stood  a  moment  unperceived 


66  HARRY    MUIK. 

at  the  door,  especially  when,  through  the  embowering  leaves, 
he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the  person  he  had  come  to  see. 

He  was  a  little  spare  man,  with  hair  nearly  white,  and  a 
hale,  ruddy  cheek.  Seated  in  an  arm-chair,  in  front  of  his  par- 
lour window,  with  a  book  in  his  hand,  it  was  very  evident  that 
the  good  man's  book  had  very  little  share  of  his  attention. 
At  present  he  was  telling  a  story  to  his  audience ;  and  Cuth- 
bert  admired  the  natural  eloquence,  the  simple  grace  of  lan- 
guage, in  which  he  clothed  it.  His  speech  was  quite  Scottish, 
and  even  a  little  provincial,  but  untainted  with  the  least  mix- 
ture of  vulgarity ;  and  when  he  had  rounded  his  tale  with  a 
quotation  from  Burns,  he  opened  the  book  in  which  he  had 
been  keeping  his  place  with  his  finger,  only  to  close  it  again 
immediately,  when  a  new  demand  was  made  upon  his  atten- 
tion. 

"  Eh,  Mr.  Muir,"  said  one  of  the  girls,  '•  what  for  have 
ye  such  lots  of  horse-gowans  yonder  in  the  corner  ?  " 

"  They're  no  horse-gowans,  Beatie,  my  woman — they're 
camomile,"  said  the  old  man. 

"And  what's  it  for?  is  it  for  eating?"  asked  the  curious 
Beatie. 

"  It's  for  making  drinks  for  no  weel  folk,"  volunteered  a 
better-informed  companion. 

"  It's  for  selling  to  John  Wilson,  the  man  that  has  taken 
up  physic  at  his  own  hand,"  said  the  chairman  of  this  strange 
assembly.  ''  They  tell  me  he's  a  friend  of  Dr.  Hornbook's  ; 
you've  all  heard  of  Dr.  Hornbook  in  Burns." 

There  was  a  general  assent ;  but  some,  among  whom  was 
the  Beatie  aforesaid,  looked  wistful  and  curious,  and  had 
not  heard  of  that  eminent  personage. 

"It's  a  profane  thing,  a  profane  thing."  said  Alexander 
Muir.  "  Keep  to  the  cotter,  like  good  bairns.  Ye'll  get  no 
ill  out  of  it.     But  what  ails  ye,  Beatie,  my  woman  ?  " 

"  Eh,  sirs,"  it's  a  gentleman,"  said  Beatie,  under  her 
breath.  Whereupon  there  ensued  a  dead  silence,  and  a  fit  of 
spasmodic  industry  came  upon  the  girls,  occasionally  inter- 
rupted by  a  smothered  titter,  as  one  of  the  more  mischievous, 
who  sat  with  her  back  to  the  door,  tempted  to  laughter  her 
companions,  whose  downcast  faces  were  towards  the  stranger. 

Cuthbert  introduced  himself  in  a  few  words,  and  was 
heartily  greeted  by  the  old  man.  '•  I  have  an  obligation  to 
you.  sir,  as  well  as  the  rest  of  them  for  your  care  of  Harry," 
said  the  uncle  ;  '•  and  ye  left  them  well  ?  they  are  my  family, 


HARRY    MUIR.  67 

these  bairus,  an  old  solitary  man  as  I  am,  and  their  friends 
are  most  welcome  to  me." 

''  You  seem  to  have  another  family  round  you  here,"  said 
Cuthbert,  looking  with  a  smile  on  the  demure  group  before 
him,  some  of  whom  were  painfully  suppressing  the  laugh 
which  they  could  not  altogether  conceal. 

"  Neighbours'  bairns,"  said  Alexander  Muir  ;  "  bits  of  in- 
nocent things  that  have  not  the  freedom  of  a  garden  like  mine 
at  home.  There  is  a  kind  of  natural  kin  between  them  and 
the  spring.  I  like  to  see  them  among  my  flowers,  and  I  think 
their  work  gets  on  all  the  better,  that  they  are  cheery  in  the 
doing  of  it ;  but  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  cannot  see,  Mr.  Char- 
teris,  how  oue's  own  bairns  should  think  themselves  better  in 
Glasgow  than  with  me.  now  that  Harry  has  gotten  a  wife." 

'•  They  wish  to  remain  together,  I  fancy,"  said  Cuthbert, 
sadly  remembering  the  bitter  tie  which  kept  them  beside  poor 
Harry :  "  but  both  for  health  and  happiness,  Mr.  Muir,  I 
should  fancy  they  would  be  better  with  you." 

'•  Say  you  so  ?  "  said  the  old  man,  eagerly,  "  for  happiness  ; 
aye,  say  you  so?  " 

Cuthbert  hastened  to  explain  away,  so  far  as  he  could,  the 
painful  meaning  of  his  words,  leaving  it  to  be  inferred  that  it 
was  only  the  fresh  air  and  freedom  of  this  pleasant  place  of 
which  they  stood  in  need. 

''  I  am  going  in  for  a  while  with  this  gentleman,"  said 
uncle  Sandy,  raising  his  voice  as  he  turned  to  his  little  con- 
gregation ;  "  but  mind  there  is  no  need  for  your  turning  idle 
because  I  am  not  here  to  look  after  you ;  mind  and  be  eident, 
as  the  cotter's  bairns  were  bidden  to  be." 

The  girls  acknowledged  the  smiling  speech  addressed  to 
them  by  a  great  demonstration  of  industry  ;  and  for  a  few  min- 
utes the  blue  stamped  leaves  and  branches  of  their  muslin 
grew  into  white  embroidery  with  wonderful  speed.  The  old 
man  looked  round  upon  them  with  a  smile  as  they  sat  bending 
down  their  heads  under  the  glistening  sunshine  over  their 
pretty  work,  and  then,  laying  his  book  in  his  chair,  he  led  the 
way  into  the  house. 

The  parlour  was  a  very  small  one,  considerably  less  than 
the  best  bed-room,  which  occupied  the  front  of  the  house,  and 
which,  by  an  occupant  of  less  poetic  taste,  would  have  been 
made  the  sitting-room.  But  Alexander  Muir  did  not  like  the 
dull  prospect  of  the  little  back  street;  he  preferred  to  look  out 
upon  the  garden  in  which  so  mufh  of  his  time  was  spent ;  and 


68  IIAKRY    MUIR. 

tlie  little  room  was  large   eiiougli  for  all  his  quiet  necessi- 
ties. 

His  old  easy  chair  had  been  removed  from  the  fireside 
corner  to  the  window.  It  was  a  latticed  window,  furnished 
with  a  broad  shelf  extending  all  the  length  of  its  deep  recess, 
which  seemed  to  have  been  made  for  plants,  but  no  plants  in- 
terposed themselves  between  the  sunshine  and  the  books, 
which  were  the  best  beloved  companions  of  the  old,  gentle, 
solitary  man.  Cuthbert  looked  at  them  as  they  lay  in  little 
heaps  in  the  corner  of  the  window.  There  was  no  dust  about 
them,  but  almost  as  little  arrangement.  They  lay,  as  their 
contents  lay  in  the  head  of  their  good  master,  mingled  in  plea- 
sant friendliness.  The  Fourfold  State  and  the  Crook  in 
the  Lot  embraced  the  royal  sides  of  Shakspeare,  and  a  much- 
used  copy  of  Burns  lay  peacefully  beside  the  Milton,  which, 
to  tell  the  truth,  opened  more  easily  at  Comus  or  at  II  Pen- 
seroso  than  in  either  Paradise.  Besides  these,  there  were 
Cowper  and  Young,  an  odd  volume  of  the  Spectator,  an  old 
time-worn  copy  of  the  Pilgrim,  with  Samuel  Rutherford's 
Letters,  and  Fleming,  the  interpreter  of  prophecy,  and  the 
quaint  Willison  ballasting  some  volumes  of  Scott  and  Gait. 
Daily  friends  and  comrades  were  these,  bearing  marks  of  long 
and  frequent  use,  some  of  them  encased  in  homely  covers  of 
green  cloth,  which  the  old  man's  own  careful  hands  had  cover 
ed  them  with  ;  some  half  bound,  after  his  fashion,  with  stripes 
of  uncultivated  "  calf"  defending  their  backs,  and  their  boards 
gay  with  marbled  paper.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  them  in  their 
disarrangement  upon  the  broad  ledge  of  the  window — friends 
too  intimate  and  familiar  to  be  kept  on  ceremonious  terms. 

"  Take  a  seat,  Mr.  Gharteris,"  said  uncle  Sandy ;  "  if  you 
had  come  while  Harry  was  here  it  might  have  been  pleasanter 
for  you,  for  Harry,  poor  man,  is  a  blithe  companion  ;  maybe 
over  blithe  sometimes  for  his  own  well-doing.  And  you 
think  the  bairns  would  be  better  with  me  ?  " 

'•  Nay,"  said  Gharteris,  hastily,  "  except  in  so  far  as  this 
house  of  yours,  Mr.  Muir,  is  certainly  a  most  pleasant  con- 
trast to  the  din  and  haste  of  Glasgow,  and  your  nieces,  you 
know,  like  your  young  ft-iends  yonder,  are  akin  to  spring." 

The  old  man  had  seated  himself  in  his  easy  chair,  which 
Cuthbert  would  not  take.  He  took  off  his  spectacles  to  wipe 
them  with  his  handkerchief,  and  shook  his  head.  "  There 
is  liose,  to  be  sure,  and  little  Lettie  ;  but  my  niece,  Martha, 
Mr.  Gharteris — well,  I  cannot  tell — the  spring  may  come  to 


HARRY    MUIR.  69 

her  yet  after  the  summer  has  passed.  I  would  not  put  the 
bondage  of  common  use  about  Martha,  for  the  like  of  me  is 
little  able  to  judge  the  like  of  her.  It  is  a  hard  thing  to  un- 
derstand. It  might  have  been  a  question  in  the  days  of  the 
auld  philosophy,  what  for  the  mind  that  would  have  served  a 
conqueror  should  be  put  into  her — a  mind  that  can  ill  bow 
to  the  present  yoke,  when  there  is  even  too  much  need  of 
such  in  high  places.  It  will  be  clear  enough  some  time,  but  it 
has  aye  been  a  wonder  to  me." 

'•  There  may  be  difficulties  in  her  way  to  conquer,  more 
hopeless  than  kingdoms,"  said  Cuthbert,  involuntarily. 

"  Young  man,  do  you  ken  of  any  evil  tidings  ?  "  asked  Alex- 
ander Muir,  with  sudden  haste  and  energy. 

•'  Nothing,  nothing,"  said  Cuthbert,  annoyed  at  himself  for 
speaking  words  from  which  inferences  so  painful  could  be 
drawn.  "  You  must  hear  my  special  mission  to  Ayr,  Mr. 
Muir.  Your  niece  has  told  me  that  the  name  of  her  grand- 
mother was  Allenders  ;  it  is  an  unusual  name.  Could  you 
give  me  any  information  about  the  family  ?  " 

The  old  man  looked  considerably  surprised.  "  They  were 
strangers  here,"  he  said ;  "  I  mind  of  Mrs.  Calder  very  well, 
whose  daughter  Violet  married  James  Muir,  my  brother.  He 
was  ten  years  younger  than  me,  and  so  I  mind  of  his  good 
mother,  though  she  died  long  ago.  They  came  from  London, 
Mr.  Charteris.  There  was  a  father  and  two  daughters  in  the 
family.  I  will  let  you  see  all  that  remains  of  them — their 
grave." 

'■  And  are  there  no  papers — no  way  of  tracing  the  family 
to  their  origin  ?"   said  Cuthbert,  with  some  uneasiness. 

"  "\Ye  have  never  thought  it  of  any  importance,"  said  the 
old  man,  smiling ;  "  if  it  is,  we  may  fall  on  some  means  may- 
be. It  sharpens  folk's  wits  to  have  something  to  find  out — 
but  what  depends  on  it,  Mr.  Charteris  ?  " 

''  I  have  said  nothing  of  it  to  our  friends  in  Glasgow — 
fearing  that  the  name  might  have  misled  me,"  said  Cuthbert ; 
"but  there  is,  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  an  estate  depending  upon 
it — not  a  great  one,  Mr.  Muir — a  comfortable  small  estate 
producing  some  four  hundred  pounds  a-year." 

Cuthbert  wanted  to  be  rather  under  than  over  the  mark — 
four  hundred  pounds  a-year !  the  sum  was  princely  and  mag- 
nificent to  the  astonished  old  man.  He  looked  at  Cuthbert 
in  a  mist  of  bewilderment.  He  took  off  his  spectacles  and 
wiped  their  glasses  again.      He  put  up  his  hand  to  his  head, 


10  HARRY    MUIR. 

and  rubbed  his  forehead  in  confused  amazement.  "  Four  hun- 
dred pounds  a-year  ! " 

"  So  far  as  I  have  gone  yet,  it  seems  almost  certain  that 
your  nephew  is  the  heir,"  said  Cuthbert.  "  The  surname  of 
itself  is  much,  and  the  Christian  names  confirm  its  evidence 
very  strongly.  If  you  think  there  can  be  anything  done  to 
trace  the  origin  of  these  Allenders,  I  should  be  glad  to  pro- 
ceed to  it  at  once." 

The  old  man  had  bowed  down  his  head — he  was  fumbling 
now  with  nerveless  fingers  at  his  glasses,  and  suddenly  he 
raised  the  handkerchief  with  which  he  had  been  wiping  them, 
up  to  his  eyes.  Some  sounds  Cuthbert  heard  like  one  or  two 
broken  irrepressible  sobs,  "  For  Harry — for  the  unstable  cal- 
lant — the  Lord's  grace  to  save  him  from  temptation — that  I 
should  live  to  see  this  hope  !  " 

The  short,  broken  sobs  continued  for  a  moment,  and  then 
he  raised  his  head.  "  I  see,  sir,"  said  the  old  man,  with  na- 
tural dignity,  '•  that  to  thank  you  for  troubling  yourself  in 
this  way  with  the  humble  concerns  of  these  orphans,  who  can 
render  you  little  in  return,  would  be  to  hold  you  in  less  es- 
teem than  is  your  due.  I  take  your  service,  as,  if  I  had  been 
as  young  and  well  endowed  as  you,  I  think  I  could  maybe 
have  rendered  it — and  now  tell  me  what  it  is  you  want  to 
discover,  that  I  may  further  it,  if  I  can,  without  delay." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

"  What !  mine  own  boy  ?  " 

Almost  in  Lindsay's  words,  Cuthbert  told  to  the  old  man  the 
story  of  the  Allenders.  He  listened  without  making  any  re- 
mark, but  evidently,  as  Cuthbert  saw,  with  great  attention. 

"  John  Allenders — yes,  that  was  the  name,"  he  said,  when 
his  visitor  had  concluded.  "  And  Violet  and  Rose — it  looks 
like — very  like,  as  if  these  bairns  were  the  folk  you  seek.  I 
pray  heaven  they  may  ;  no  for  the  siller,"  continued  the  old 
man,  turning  back  on  his  way  to  the  pin  where  hung  his  low, 
broad-brimmed  hat :  "  no  alone  or  even  specially  for  the  siller ; 
but  for  other  matters,   Mr.   Charteris,  other  things  of  more 


HARRY    MUIR.  71 

concern  to  Martha  and  me,  and  the  rest  of  them,  too,  poor 
things,  than  silver  and  gold  ;  though  no  doubt  an  honourable 
maintenance,  no  to  say  a  grand  independence  like  that,  is  to 
be  thankfully  received  for  itself,  if  we  would  not  sin  against 
our  mercies — and  now,  sir,  I  am  ready." 

Charteris  followed  without  any  question, 

The  old  man  turned  first  to  the  garden  door,  and  looked 
out.  His  young  guests  had  slackened  a  little  in  their  indus- 
try ;  one  of  them  sat  solemnly  in  the  arm-chair,  reading  with 
great  emphasis  from  the  book  he  had  left.  Another  had 
thrown  down  her  work  to  arrange  in  elaborate  braids  a  fa- 
vourite companion's  hair  ;  and  two  or  three  other  groups, 
with  their  heads  close  together,  were  discussing  -  the  gentle- 
man ;"  and  what  could  possibly  be  his  errand  with  Maister 
Meur.  '•'  Bairns,-'  said  the  old  man,  looking  out  smilingly. 
With  a  sudden  start  the  ^irls  resumed  their  work,  the  occu- 
pant of  the  arm-chair  threw  down  the  book  in  great  haste,  and 
fled  to  her  own  seat. 

'•  The  book  will  do  ye  no  harm  ;  ye  may  read  it  out  loud, 
one  at  a  time,"  said  the  gracious  patron  of  the  young  em- 
broiderers ;  '•  but  see  that  you  do  not  forget  what  work  must 
be  done,  or  make  me  forsworn  of  my  word,  when  I  promised 
to  see  ye  keep  from  idleness.  Mind  !  or  we  will  cast  out  the 
morn."' 

Saying  which,  the  old  man  turned  to  the  street  door, 
directing  his  little  Jessie  as  he  passed  the  kitchen,  to  have 
tea  prepared  with  some  ornamental  additions  to  its  ordinary 
bread  and  butter,  which  he  specified  in  a  whisper,  exactly  at 
six  o'clock. 

'•  And  I  have  a  spare  room  that  you  are  most  kindly  wel- 
come to,  if  ye  can  put  up  with  my  small  accommodations,  Mr. 
Charteris,"  said  the  master  of  the  little  house,  as  they  passed 
into  the  street ;  ••  but  I  see  you  are  for  asking  where  we  are 
to  go.  There  is  one  person  in  the  town  that  may  very  likely 
help  us,  I  think.  She  was  aunt  to  my  sister-in-law.  that's  now 
departed,  and  knew  all  about  the  Allenders.  She  is  an  old 
woman.  I  would  not  say,  but  she  has  the  better  of  me  by 
twenty  years  ;  but  she's  sharper  at  worldly  business  yet,  than 
many  folk  in  their  prime.  She  has  some  bits  of  property  and 
money  saved  that  will  come  to  the  bairns  no  doubt  some  time, 
but  the  now  she  holds  a  firm  grip,  and  is  jealous  of  respect  on 
the  head  of  it.  I  will  take  it  kind  if  ye  will  just  grant  her 
the  bit  little  ceremony  that  has  grown  a  necessity  to   her.  Mr. 


72  HARRY    MUIR. 

Charteris.  She  is  an  aged  woman,  and  it  does  not  set  youth 
ill  to  honour  even  the  whims  of  gray  hairs." 

"  I  shall  be  very  careful,"  said  Cuthbert  with  a  smile,  for 
he  did  not  think  it  needful  to  add  that  he  was  a  very  unlikely 
person  to  show  any  want  of  courtesy  to  the  aged  or  the  weak. 

They  walked  through  the  town  somewhat  slowly,  for  the  old 
man  paused  now  and  then  to  point  out  with  genuine  pride  and 
affection  the  notable  things  they  passed.  The  polemic  Brigs, 
the  Wallace  tower.  His  mild  gray  eye  kindled  as  he  remind- 
ed his  visitor  that  this  was  doubly  classic  ground.  The  land 
of  Wallace,  and  of  Burns — of  the  old  traditional  hero  whose 
mighty  form  looms  over  his  country  still,  and  of  the  unhappy 
poet  whom  the  poor  of  Scotland  cherish  in  their  hearts. 

Alexander  Muir  was  one  of  those  whose  end  of  life  seems 
almost  as  pure  as  its  beginning.  A  spirit  so  blameless  and 
placid,  that  we  might  almost  think  it  had  only  been  sent  here, 
because  it  is  a  greater  joy  to  be  a  man,  and  know  by  certain 
experiment  the  wonderful  mystery  of  redemption,  than  to  be 
satisfied  with  such  knowledge  as  the  sinless  in  heaven  can 
gain.  It  is  happy  for  us,  amid  the  dark  records  of  common 
lives,  that  here  and  there  God  permits  us  one  such  man,  born 
to  be  purer  than  his  fellows,  so  much  lower  than  the  angels 
that  the  taint  of  native  sin  has  come  with  him  into  the  world 
— so  much  higher  than  they,  that  the  mantle  of  the  Lord  has 
fallen  upon  him,  and  that  he  stands  accepted  in  a  holiness 
achieved  by  the  Master  and  King  of  all.  Lichened  over  with 
the  moss  of  age,  in  quiet  places  here  and  there  live  gracious 
souls  of  this  happy  class,  and  Alexander  Muir  was  one. 

But  very  human  was  the  pure  unworldly  spirit,  deeply 
learned  in  the  antiquities  of  the  country,  with  which  his  very 
life  seemed  woven.  Happily  proud  of  all  its  fame  and  all  its 
great  men,  and  interested  even  in  its  prejudices,  there  could 
have  been  found  nowhere  a  guide  more  pleasant.  Cuthbert 
and  he  insensibly  began  to  use  the  language  of  intimates — to 
feel  themselves  old  friends  ;  and  when  the  children  in  the 
streets  came  forward  to  pull  the  old  man's  skirts,  and  solicit 
his  notice,  the  young  one,  impatient  at  first  of  the  delay, 
became  soon  so  much  interested  in  the  universal  acquaintance- 
ship of  his  cheerful  companion,  as  to  linger  well  pleased  when 
he  chose  to  linger.  Almost  every  one  who  met  them  had  a 
recognition  respectful  and  kindly  for  uncle  Sandy.  His  pas- 
sage through  the  street  was  a  progress. 

"  But  we  are  putting  off  our  time,"  said  uncle  Sandy  at 
last.     "  This  way,  Mr.  Charteris." 


HARRY    MUIR.  73 

They  were  then  in  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  before  a  two- 
story  house,  of  smaller  proportions  than  his  own  ;  the  old  man 
at.  last  concluded  his  walk.  The  door  stood  open,  and  the 
sanded  passage  leading  to  a  flight  of  stone  stairs,  floury  and 
white  with  "  camstane."  proclaimed  the  house  to  have  more 
occupants  than  one.  A  door  opening  into  this  passage  gave 
them  a  glimpse  of  a  family  apartment,  where  the  mother  stood 
at  an  ample  tub  washing,  while  children  of  all  sizes  overflowed 
the  limits  of  the  moderately  clean  kitchen.  This  woman,  Mr. 
Muir  addressed  kindly,  inquiring  after  her  exuberant  family 
first,  and  then  for  Miss  Jean. 

'•  Ou  ay,  there's  naething  ails  her,"  was  the  answer,  given 
not  without  some  seeming  ill-humour.  "  I  was  paying  her  the 
rent  yestreen.  She's  glegger  about  siller  now  than  ever  I  was 
a'  my  days  ;  and  as  for  gieing  a  bawbee  to  a  wean,  or  an 
hour's  mercy  to  a  puir  body,  ye  micht  as  weel  move  the  heart 
o'  a  whinstane  ;  no  that  we're  needing  ony  o'  her  charity.  I 
have  a  guid  man  to  work  for  me,  that  has  been  even  on  sev^n 
year  wi  ae  maister,  and  there's  no  mony  could  say  that ;  but 
it's  awfu'  to  see  an  auld  body  wi'  such  a  grip  o'  the  world." 

Leaving  Miss  Jean's  tenant,  operating  with  angry  energy 
upon  the  garments  in  her  hands,  they  proceeded  up  the  cam- 
staned  stair  to  the  door  of  Miss  Jean's  own  habitation.  A 
very  small  girl,  dressed  in  a  remote  and  far-away  fashion,  with 
a  thick  cap  covering  her  short-cut  hair,  admitted  them,  re- 
cognising the  old  man  with  a  smile  of  evident  pleasure,  and 
looking  with  a  little  alarm  at  his  companion. 

"  You  will  tell  Miss  Jean  it's  me,  Katie,  and  a  stranger 
gentleman  I've  brought  to  see  her,"  said  uncle  Sandy ;  "  and 
when  is  she  to  let  you  home  to  see  your  mother?" 

"  Whisht,"  said  the  little  girl  in  a  whisper  ;  "  she'll  hear. 
She'll  no  let  me  at  a'.    Oh,  if  you  would  speak  to  her,  uncle  ! " 

"  So  I  will,  Katie,  my  woman,"  said  the  old  man  kindly, 
patting  the  head  of  the  little  drudge  as  she  showed  them  into 
a  front  room  ;  "  and  mind  you  and  be  a  good  bairn  in  the 
mean  time,  and  dinna  be  ill  to  her,  even  if  she  is  ill  to  you: 
and  now  you  must  tell  Miss  Jean." 

The  child  lingered  a  moment.  '•  If  ye  please,  uncle — may- 
be she'll  no  let  me  speak  to  you  after — is  Lettie  ever  coming 
back  again?" 

'■  Maybe,  my  dear  ;  there's  no  saying,"  said  uncle  Sandy. 
"  I  will  try  if  she  can  come  to  see  you,  or  maybe  I  will  take 
4 


74  HARRY    MUIR. 

you  to  see  her ;  but,  Katie,  my  woman,  you  must  tell  Miss 
Jean." 

The  little  girl  went  away  with  a  lighter  step.  "  She  is  a 
faraway  cousin,"  said  the  old  man,  '•  a  fatherless  Lairn,  poor 
thing,  needing  whiles  to  eat  bitter  bread ;  if  our  bairns  come 
to  their  kingdom  they  must  take  Katie  Calder.  I  think  the 
blood  is  warmer  on  our  side  of  the  house  ;  any  way  none  of 
them  will  grudge  the  bit  lassie  her  upbringing." 

Miss  Jean  Calder's  best  room  was  furnished  with  a  set  of 
old  lugubrious  mahogany  chairs,  and  a  solemn  four  posted 
bedstead,  with  terrible  curtains  of  heavy  dark  moreen.  Neither 
the  bed  nor  the  room  were  ever  used,  the  other  apartment 
serving  all  purposes  of  kitchen,  parlour,  and  sleeping-room  to 
its  aged  mistress  and  her  little  handmaiden.  They  could  hear 
sounds  of  some  little  commotion  in  it  as  they  sat  down  to 
wait.  Miss  Jean  had  preparations  to  make  before  she  could 
receive  visitors. 

At  last,  having  completed  these,  she  entered  the  room. 
She  was  a  tall  and  very  meagre  old  woman,  with  very  false 
black  hair  smoothed  over  the  ashy  wrinkled  brow  of  extreme 
age,  and  a  dirty  cap  of  white  net,  hastily  substituted  for  the 
flannel  one  in  which  she  had  been  sitting  by  the  fireside  in  the 
other  room  ;  an  old,  dingy,  much-worn  shawl  and  a  rustling 
black  silk  apron  covered  the  short-comings  of  her  dress ;  but 
underneath  the  puckers  of  her  eye-lids,  keen,  sharp,  frosty  eyes 
of  blue  looked  out  with  undiminished  vision  ;  and,  but  for  the 
pinched  and  grasping  expression  which  seemed  to  have  settled 
down  upon  them,  there  would  have  been  intelligence  still  in 
the  withered  features,  which  once,  too,  had  had  their  share  of 
beauty.  Some  one  says  prettily  that  Nature,  in  learning  to 
make  the  lily,  turned  out  the  convolvulus.  One  may  trace 
something  like  this  in  the  character  of  a  family  as  it  descends 
from  one  generation  to  another,  as  if,  the  idea  of  a  peculiar 
creation  once  taken  up,  experiments  were  made  upon  the  race, 
and  gradations  of  the  mind  to  be  produced,  were  thrown,  first 
into  one  position  and  then  another,  until  the  climax  was  put 
upon  them  all  by  the  one  commanding  spirit  in  which  the  de- 
sign was  perfected.  It  is  not  uncommon.  Miss  Jean  Calder 
was  a  lesser  and  narrower  example  of  the  mind  of  Martha 
Muir;  eager  in  her  young  days  to  raise  herself  above  her 
comrades,  she  had  repelled  with  disdain  the  neighbours'  sons, 
who  admired  her ;  while  yet  she  resented  bitterly  the  neglect 
with  which  her  honest  wooers  avenged  themselves  afterwards 


HARRY    MUIR.  V5 

for  her  disdain.  Then  the  selfish,  fiery,  proud  woman  began 
with  firm  industry  to  make  a  permanent  provision  for  herself; 
and  from  that  early  period  until  about  two  years  before  this 
time  she  had  toiled  early  and  late,  like  the  poorest  of  labour- 
ing men.  All  that  might  have  been  generous  and  lofty — if 
there  ever  was  such  admixture  in  the  ambition  and  pride  of 
her  youth — had  evaporated  long  ago  ;  a  tyrant  of  unbending 
will  in  her  small  dominion — a  hard,  grasping,  pitiless  creditor 
to  the  miserable  tenants  who  happened  to  be  in  her  power — 
an  unhappy  spirit,  clinging  to  the  saddest  dross  of  worldliness, 
she  had  become. 

A  sad  object — but  yet  standing,  to  the  mind  of  Martha 
Muir — if  we  may  venture  so  to  speak  of  the  working  of  Him 
who  creates  all — in  the  relation  of  a  study  to  a  great  painting 
— a  model  to  a  finished  statue. 

"  Good  morning  to  ye,  Alexander  Muir,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
'•  who's  this  ye've  brought  in  your  hand  ?" 

"  The  gentleman  is  from  Edinburgh,  Miss  Jean,"  said 
Alexander.  "  He  is  a  friend  of  Harry's,  and  has  been  kind 
to  him,  as  most  folk  are,  indeed,  who  ken  the  lad." 

"  I  tell  ye,  Sandy,  ye  have  made  a  fuil  of  that  boy,"  said 
the  old  woman  harshly;  "a  wasterful  spendthrift  lad  that 
would  throw  away  every  bawbee  that  he  had,  and  mair,  that 
he  hasna ;  but  he  needna  look  to  soin  on  me  if  ever  he  comes 
to  want.  I  have  nae  mair  than  I  can  do  wi  mysel ;  and  where's 
my  twenty  shillings,  guid  white  monie,  that  I  gied  to  fit  him 
out?" 

"  He  will  pay  it  back  some  day,  no  fear,"  said  Alexander, 
"  for  I  hear  from  this  gentleman  that  Harry  is  like  to  prosper, 
poor  man,  and  no  doubt  he  will  mind  his  friends,  Miss  Jean. 
The  gentleman  has  been  speaking  to  me  of  your  guid  sister, 
John  Calder's  wife.  He  thinks  he  kens  some  good  friends 
she  had.  Did  you  ever  hear  what  part  that  family  came 
from  ? " 

"  Ay,  good  friends  ?  where  are  they  ?  what's  like  to  come 
o't  ?  "  said  Miss  Jean,  fixing  the  frosty  eyes,  whose  keen  light 
contrasted  so  strangely  with  her  ashy  wrinkled  face,  on  Cuth- 
bert. 

"  I  cannot  tell,"  said  Cuthbert,  warily,  ''  it  depends  entirely 
upon  what  relationship  I  may  discover — but  it  may  be  good 
for  those  who  were  kind  to  the  Allenders,  Miss  Calder,  if  I 
find  that  they  were  relatives  of  the  family  I  suppose." 

"Kind  to  the  Allenders?     Do  you  ken,  lad,  that  it  was 


•76  HARRY    MUIR. 

my  mother  took  them  in,  when  their  father  died,  and  the  poor 
things  hadna  a  mortal  to  look  after  them? — kind  to  the 
Allenders,  said  he  ? — weel,  weel — puir  bairns,  they're  baith 
gane." 

Something  human  crossed  the  sharp,  pinched,  selfish  face — 
even  in  this  degraded  spirit  there  was  a  memory  of  the  fragrant 
far  away  youth. 

"And  Mr.  Charteris,"  said  Alexander  Muir, '"would  like 
to  ken  where  they  came  from,  Miss  Jean — it  is  weel  kent  how 
good  ye  were  to  the  orphans,  I  am  meaning  your  mother — 
and  no  doubt  you  ken  better  about  them  than  indifferent  folk  ; 
— that  was  the  way  I  troubled  you,  and  brought  Mr.  Charteris 
this  length." 

"Wha's  Mr.  Charteris?" 

"  It's  the  gentleman,"  said  the  old  man  simply. 

'•  If  they  left  any  papers,"  interposed  Cuthbert,  "  or  books, 
or  any  relics  indeed  from  which  we  might  discover  their  origin 
— I  should  feel  it  a  great  obligation,  Miss  Calder,  if  you  would 
assist  me  to  trace  it." 

"  Obligation  !  I  have  little  broo  of  obligation,"  said  the 
old  woman  with  a  grating  laugh,  mingled  of  harshness  and  im- 
becility. "  I  have  seen  ower  mony  folk  that  I  obliged,  slip 
away  out  of  my  hand  like  a  knotless  thread  ;  but  is  there  any- 
thing like  to  come  of  it  ?  I  dinna  ken  this  stranger  lad — I 
can  put  trust  in  you,  Alexander  Muir — thut  is  in  what  you 
say  ye  ken." 

"  Well,  Miss  Jean,  it  depends  upon  what  the  gentleman 
finds  out,"  said  the  old  man,  a  little  proud  of  his  tactics,  and 
marvelling  within  himself  at  his  own  address,  "  if  he  can  be 
satisfied  by  means  of  any  papers  or  books  or  such  like — I  be- 
lieve something  good  may  come  of  it." 

The  old  woman  wavered.  "  It's  a  hantle  trouble,"  she 
said,  "  to  put  a  frail  woman  like  me  to,  that  have  but  a  little 
monkey  of  a  lassie  to  help  me  in  the  house, — but  there  is  a 
kist  ben  yonder  in  below  the  bed — and  there  may  be  some 
bits  of  things  in  it — I  dinna  ken — but  neither  her  nor  me  are 
fit  to  pu'  it  out." 

"  Can  I  help?  "  said  Cuthbert,  hurriedly. 

"  Ye're  unco  ready  wi'  your  offer,  lad,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
grimly,  "  it's  no  for  love  o'  the  wark,  I  judge,  wi'  thae  bit  white 
lassie's  fingers — look  at  mine,"  and  she  extended  a  long 
shrivelled  hand,  armed  like  the  claws  of  a  bird.  "  na,  na,  I  ken 
naething  about  you — but  if  Katie  and   you  can  manage  it, 


HARRY    MUm.  77 

Sandy  Muir — and  she's  a  fashionless  beat,  no  worth  the  half  of 
the  meat  she  eats — I'll  be  nae  hindrance — ye  can  try." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

"  Oh,  lean  and  covetous  old  age !— a  winter  unblessed, 
Thai  blights  where'er  it  touches." 

Alexander  Muir  instantly  proceeded  in  great  haste  to  the 
kitchen  whither  Miss  Jean  suspiciously  followed  him.  In  a 
few  minutes  Cuthbert  heard  "  the  kist  "  making  audible  pro- 
gress— and  a  very  short  time  after,  the  old  man  called  him 
out  to  the  passage,  between  the  two  rooms,  whither  they  had 
dragged  it. 

••  Ye're  giving  yoursel  a  hantle  fash  wi'  a  thing  that  can 
never  do  you  ony  good,  Sandy,"  said  Miss  Jean  tauntingly, 
"  for  the  Allenders  were  nae  connexion  to  you,  even  though 
Violet  Calder  did  marry  your  brother  Jamie — Weel  I  wat 
she  would  have  been  better  wanting  him.  It's  a  bonnie  story 
when  it's  tolled — a  woman  to  live  as  lang  as  fifty  year. — and 
syne  to  dee  because  her  man  died — auld  taupie  !  when  she 
might  have  been  to  the  fore  to  have  a  share  of  the  benefit  if 
there  is  to  be  ony  benefit — what  ailed  the  fuil  to  dee  ?  " 

"  Poor  woman,  she  would  have  been  blithe  to  remain,  for 
the  bairns'  sakes,"  said  the  old  man  gently,  "  if  it  had  not  been 
otherwise  ordained." 

"  Weel,  there's  the  fewer  to  pairt  it  among,  if  onything 
comes  o'  this,"  said  the  miser.  "  Ye  maun  just  stand  back 
awee,  my  man.  I  dinna  open  a'  ray  posies  afore  friend  folk  ; 
and  ye're  no  to  think  the  Allenders  left  as  muckle  behind 
them,  clailhes  and  a'  thegither,  as  would  fill  the  half  o'  that 
kist.  '  What  there  is,  I'll  bring  ye,  but  I'll  hae  nae  stranger 
middling  wi'  my  gear." 

Cuthbert  withdrew  as  he  was  ordered,  to  the  door  of  the 
'•  best  room."  The  chest  was  a  large  one,  painted  a  dull  brown 
colour,  and  judging  from  its  broken  lock,  containing  nothing  of 
any  value.  The  old  woman  raised  the  lid,  and  dived  into  a 
wilderness  of  lumber,  faded  worn  out  cobweb-like  garments, 
long  ago  unfit  for  use,  but  preserved  nevertheless  on  the  penu- 
rious principle  of  throwing  nothing  away.     After  long  fishing 


78  HARRY    MUIR. 

amoBg  these  relics  of  ancient  finery,  Miss  Jean  at  last  pro- 
duced from  the  very  bottom  of  the  abyss,  a  small  quarto  Bible 
in  a  dark  decayed  binding,  much  worn  at  the  corners.  "  Here !  " 
she  said,  abruptly  handing  it  to  Cuthbert,  "  ye  can  look  at  that, 
and  I'll  see  if  there's  ony  mair — there  should  be  some  papers 
in  the  shottle." 

Cuthbert  hastily  returned  to  the  window  to  examine  the 
book ;  on  the  fly  leaf  was  written  simply  the  name  of  John 
Allenders,  a  remote  date,  and  a  text.  It  gave  no  further  clue 
to  its  owner's  identity. 

"  Have  ye  gotten  ony  thing,  Mr.  Charteris  ?  "  asked  anxiously 
the  old  man  at  his  side.  Cuthbert  could  only  shake  his  head 
as  he  turned  over  the  dark  old  pages  and  looked  for  farther 
information  in  vain. 

The  Bible  contained,  as  all  Bibles  do  in  Scotland,  the 
metrical  version  of  psalms  sanctioned  by  the  Kirk,  and  be- 
tween the  end  of  the  New  Testament  and  the  beginning  of 
these,  it  is  customary  to  have  the  family  register  of  births  and 
deaths.  Cuthbert  turned  hastily  to  this  place  ;  at  first  he  con- 
cluded there  was  no  entry,  but  on  further  examination,  he 
found  that  two  leaves  had  been  pasted  together,  and  that  on 
the  outer  side  of  one  something  was  written.  He  looked  at  it, 
"  Behold  I  take  away  from  thee  the  desire  of  thine  eyes  with  a 
stroke,"  was  the  melancholy  inscription  ;  and  the  handwriting 
was  stiff"  and  painful  and  elaborate,  most  like  the  hand  of  bit- 
ter grief  There  were  mistakes  too  and  slips  of  the  mournful 
pen.  Cuthbert  felt  it  move  him  greatly — so  strange  it  seemed 
to  see  the  mark  of  the  faltering  hasty  fingers,  which  so  long 
ago  were  at  rest  for  ever. 

One  of  the  leaves  had  been  a  good  deal  torn  in  a  vain  en- 
deavour to  open  this  sealed  record.  Cuthbert  feeling  himself 
growing  excited  and  anxious,  with  the  wished  for  evidence  so 
very  near  him,  made  other  attempts  which  were  as  unsuccess- 
ful. The  dead  man  had  shut  up  the  chronicle  of  his  happier 
days  that  he  might  not  see  it  in  his  desolation,  and  the  jealous 
grief  fc^eemed  to  linger  about  it  as  its  guardian  still. 

Cuthbert  held  it  up  to  the  light  and  endeavoured  to  read 
through,  but  with  as  little  success  as  before.  Alexander  Muir 
had  been  watching  him  anxiously.  There  was  a  glass  of  water 
on  the  table,  which  Katie  had  brought  for  him  ;  the  old  man 
wet  his  handkerchief,  and  with  trembling  hands  spread  it  upon 
the  hidden  page. 

"  I  dinna  ken  what  a'  thae  papers  are,"  said  Miss  Jean,  en- 


HARRY    MUIR.  79 

tering  with  a  bundle  of  yellow  letters  tied  together  with  a 
strip  of  old  linen  as  yellow  as  themselves,  but  their's  nae  se- 
crets in  them,  ye  may  look  over  them  as  ye  like.  What  are 
ye  doin'  to  the  book '?  " 

'•  There's  something  written  here,"  said  the  old  man,  en- 
deavouring vainly  to  conceal  his  anxiety. 

'*  Ane  wad  think  there  was  a  fortune  coming  to  you.,  Sandy 
Muir,"  said  Miss  Jean,  ^'ye're  unco  anxious  to  bring  profit  to 
other  folk." 

'■  I  aye  wished  weel  to  my  neighbours,"  said  Alexander, 
meekly,  and  with  a  little  self-reproach.  He  felt  as  if  it  were 
almost  selfish  to  be  so  anxious  about  his  nephew's  fortune. 

In  the  meantime  Cuthbert  untied  the  string,  and  as  the 
too  jealous  gum  showed  yet  no  indication  of  yielding,  began  to 
look  over  the  papers.  The  first  that  came  to  his  hands, 
evidently  added  by  Miss  Jean  to  the  original  heap,  and  osten- 
tatiously displayed  on  the  top,  was  an  account  for  the  funeral 
expenses  of  John  Allenders,  in  which  Mrs.  Calder  appeared 
debtor  to  William  Lochhead,  undertaker ;  unfortunately  Miss 
Jean  had  not  observed  the  rigid  honesty  with  which  it  was 
endorsed  in  a  very  cramped  female  hand,  '••  Paid  by  me,  out  of 
the  notes  left  by  John  Allenders  for  his  burial,  leaving  a 
balance  of  three  pounds  and  a  penny  halfpenny  for  the  behoof 
of  Rose  and  Violet.     Signed  Margaret  Calder." 

Other  tantalizing  bits  of  writing  were  below  this ;  a  child's 
note  signed  Violet,  and  addressed  to  the  father  in  some  tem- 
porary absence  from  home,  telling  how  Rose  had  begun  to 
'■'  flower  "  a  collar,  and  how  the  writer  herself  had  bought  seeds 
with  her  sixpence  for  Mrs.  Oalder's  garden.  Another  bit  of 
paper  contained  a  list  in  a  hand  more  formed  of  different  arti- 
cles of  •'  flowering,"  received  from  some  warehouse.  Then 
there  were  school  accounts,  for  the  girls,  of  a  still  earlier  date, 
and  at  last  Cuthbert  came  to  a  letter  bearing  the  postmark  of 
London  and  Stirling.  He  opened  it  in  haste.  It  was  a  letter 
of  commonplace  condolence,  beginning,  "  My  dear  Sir,"  and 
sugiresting  the  ordinary  kind  of  consolation  for  the  loss  of  •'  my 
dear  departed  sister,"  and  was  signed  by  "  Daniel  Scott." 
Lindsay  had  not  mentioned  the  surname  of  the  wife  of  John 
Alleiiders — this  letter  was  evidently  from  her  brother. 

Cuthbert  went  on  with  great  anxiety,  and  very  considera- 
ble excitement,  just  glancing  up  to  see  that  the  softening  pro- 
cess carried  on  by  Alexander  Muir  had  not  yet  produced  much 
effect,  and  taking  no  part  in  the  conversation.     The  next  letter 


80  HARRY    MUIK. 

in  the  bundle  was  in  the  same  hand,  and  in  its  substance  little 
more  interesting  ;  but  its  postscript  brought  a  flush  of  satisfac- 
tion to  Cuthbert's  eager  face. 

"  I  hear  that  your  father  is  but  weakly,"  wrote  the  matter- 
of-fact  Daniel,  "  and  your  brother  G-ilbert  being  dead  two 
months  ago,  as  you  were  informed,  has  sent  for  Walter — that's 
the  captain — home.  If  you  were  asking  my  opinion,  I  would 
say  you  should  certainly  come  back  to  be  at  hand  whatever 
might  happen  ;  for  when  once  trouble  comes  into  a  family, 
there  is  no  saying  where  it  may  end  ;  and,  after  your  father, 
and  Walter,  and  Robert,  there  is  no  doubt  that  you  are  the 
right  heir." 

This  letter  had  been  torn  up  as  if  in  indignation  of  the 
cold-blooded  counsel.  Cuthbert  laid  it  aside  as  a  link  in  the 
chain  which  he  had  to  form. 

"  I'll  no  have  the  book  destroyed  wi'  weet.  I  tell  ye,  I 
winna,  Sandy  Muir,"  said  Miss  Jean,  extending  her  lean  brown 
hand.  "  Let  it  abee  wi'  your  napkin.  I  wonder  that  the  like 
o'  you,  that  pretends  to  be  better  than  your  neighbours,  could 
gie  cuch  usage  to  the  Scripture.  Think  shame  o'  yourself, 
man  ;  and  be  done  wi'  your  slaistering." 

The  old  man  thrust  her  hand  away  with  less  than  his  usual 
mildness.  "  Have  patience  a  moment — just  have  patience. 
See,  Mr.  Charteris,  see  !  " 

Cuthbert  rose — the  leaves  came  slowly  separate — and  there 
in  this  simple  record  was  all  he  sought. 

"  John  Allenders,  writer,  fourth  son  of  Gilbert  Allenders, 
of  Allenders,  married,  on  the  first  day  of  March,  1 769,  to 
Rose  Scott,  daughter  of  Thomas  Scott,  builder,  Stirling." 

Cuthbert  laid  down  the  book  on  the  table,  and  extending 
his  hand,  took  the  somewhat  reluctant  one  of  the  anxious 
old  man  and  shook  it  heartily.  "  It's  all  right,  said  Cuthbert, 
swinging  the  arm  of  uncle  Sandy  in  unusual  exhilaration. 
"  It's  all  right.  I  have  nothing  to  do  but  congratulate  you, 
and  get  up  the  proof.  I  thought  we  would  find  it,  and  here  it 
is  as  clear  as  daylight.      It's  all  exactly  as  it  should  be." 

"  What  is  right  ?  what's  the  lad  meaning?  "  said  Miss  Jean, 
thrusting  herself  in  between  them  ;  "  and  what  are  ye  shaking 
hands  wi'  that  foolish  body  Sandy  Muir  for,  when  it's  me  that 
ony  thing  belonging  to  the  Allenders  should  justly  come  to  ? 
We  keepit  them  here  in  our  aiu  house  ;  we  gied  the  auld  man 
decent  burial  as  ye  would  see,  and  it's  out  of  my  book  ye  have 
gotten  a'  ye  ken.  What  does  the  man  mean  shaking  hands 
wi'  Sandy  Muir?" 


HARRY    MUIR.  81 

"  It's  no  for  me — it's  for  the  bairns — it's  for  Harry,"  said 
Alexander. 

"  Hairy  !  and  what  has  Hairy  to  do  wi't,  I  would  like  to 
ken  ?  He's  but  a  far-away  friend ;  forbye  being  a  prodigal, 
that  it  wad  be  a  shame  to  trust  guid  siller  wi' — Hairy  ! — the 
man's  daft !  what  has  he  to  do  with  John  Alleuders?  " 

'•  A  little,"  said  Cuthbert,  smiling.  "  He  is  the  heir  of 
John  Allenders,  Miss  Calder." 

"The  heir  ! "  the  old  woman's  face  grew  red  with  anger. 
"  I  tell  ye  he  had  nae  lawful  heir,  if  it  binna  the  ane  surviving 
that  did  him  kindness.  It's  you  that  disna  ken.  Hairy  Muir 
is  but  niece's  son  to  me." 

"  But  he  is  grandson  to  Rose  Allenders,"  said  Cuthbert, 
"and  the  heir  of  her  father." 

Miss  Jean  stood  still  for  a  moment,  digesting  the  strange 
purport  of  those  words  ;  at  last  she  stretched  forward  her  hand 
to  clutch  the  Bible.  "  The  book's  mine — ye  ken  nocht  but 
what  ye  have  gotten  out  of  my  book — gie  it  back  to  me,  ye 
deceivers.  Am  I  gaun  to  gie  my  goods,  think  ye,  to  better 
Hairy  Muir  ?  Na,  na, — ye  have  come  to  the  wrang  hand ; 
give  me  back  my  book." 

'•  There  is  some  property  in  the  case,"  said  Cuthbert,  keep- 
ing his  hand  upon  the  Bible  :  "  It  cannot  come  to  you,  Miss 
Jean  ;  for,  though  I  believe  you  were  very  kind  to  them,  you 
are  not  related  to  John  Allenders  ;  but  Harry  Muir  is.  Now, 
whether  would  it  be  be  better  that  this  property  should  go  to 
a  stranger,  or  to  your  nephew  who  is  in  your  debt?  " 

Miss  Jean  had  been  eager  to  interrupt  him,  but  his  last 
words  were  a  weighty  utterance.  She  paused  to  consider. 
"  Ye're  a  clever  chield,"  she  said  at  last,  with  a  harsh  laugh. 
"  I  wadna  say  but  ye  could  put  a  case  gey  week  My  nephew 
that's  in  my  debt — and  so  he  is,  that's  true — what  kind  o' 
property  is't?  ye'll  be  a  writer,  I  reckon?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  a  smile,  "  I  am  a  writer.  It  is 
some  land— a  small  estate,  Miss  Jean ;  but  only  one,  who  is 
a  descendant  of  John  Allenders,  can  be  the  heir,  and  that 
is  Harry  Muir." 

'•  Weel,  I  take  ye  to  witness  that  what  ye  have  said  is  true," 
said  the  old  woman,  eagerly  ;  '•  that  this  lad  is  in  my  debt ; 
and  payment  I'll  hae  afore  he  brinks  the  possession  a  week. 
Wasna  it  out  of  my  book  ye  got  a'  ye  ken?  and  wha  has  sae 
muckle  claim  to  consideration  as  me  ?  I  take  ye  to  witness, 
and  you,  ye  auld  sneck-drawer ;  it  was  this  ye  was  thinkiug 
4# 


82  HARRY    MITIR. 

about  a'  the  time — Oh  Sandy  Muir  !  me,  in  my  innocence, 
thinking  ye  were  taking  this  pains  to  do  me  a  guid  turn :  as 
ye're  awn  me  a  day  in  harst,  a'body  kens ;  and  you  thinking 
o'  yoursel  a'  the  time.  I  wonder  ye  can  have  the  face  to  look 
at  me  ! " 

"  I  am  seeking  nothing  for  mysel,  Miss  Jean,"  said  Alex- 
ander, with  a  little  pride,  "  the  little  I  have  will  soon  go  to  the 
bairns,  as  this  will  do.  And  I  am  thankful  to  say  I  owe  ye 
nothing,  if  it  be  not  in  the  way  of  good  will." 

'•  Guid  will,"  said  she,  ''  bonnie  guid  will  to  take  a  braw 
inheritance  out  fra  under  my  very  een,"  said  the  old  wo- 
man, bitterly.  I  baud  ye  bound  for  the  value  of  that  book, 
Sandy  Muir,  mind.  I'll  baud  ye  bound,  and  you  too,  my 
braw  lad ;  sae  if  ye  tak  it  away  the  noo  ye  sail  bring  it  back 
again,  or  it  will  be  a'  the  waure  for  yoursels.  Mind  what  I 
say ;  I'll  hae  my  goods  spoiled  and  my  gear  lifted  for  nae  man 
in  this  world." 

Cuthbert  promised  with  all  reverence  to  restore  the  Bible, 
which  he  had  considerable  fears  he  would  not  be  permitted 
to  take  away  ;  and  after  they  had  soothed,  so  far  as  was  possible, 
her  bitter  humour,  Miss  Jean,  with  as  much  courtesy  as  she 
was  capable  of,  suffered  them,  rich  in  these  precious  documents, 
to  depart. 

"  I'll  no  can  speak  to  Miss  Jean  to-day,  Katie,"  whispered 
uncle  Sandy,  as  the  little  girl  stole  after  them  down  stairs ; 
"  but  keep  you  a  good  heart,  my  bonnie  woman,  there's  blythe 
davs  coming,  and  may  be  I'll  take  you  to  see  your  mother  my- 
self." 

"  Are  you  sure  this  will  do,  Mr.  Charteris  ?  "  continued  the 
old  man,  when  they  were  again  on  their  way  to  town. 

Cuthbert  was  in  great  spirits.  "  I  will  astonish  Davie 
Lindsay,"  he  said,  smiling.  "  Oh  yes,  it  will  do,  it  was  just 
the  thing  I  wanted.  Now  we  must  have  the  register  of  the 
different  marriages  and  births ;  that  part  of  it  will  be  easily 
managed,  I  fancy." 

''  My  brother  James's  Family  Bible  is  in  my  house,"  said 
uncle  Sandy,  "  and  he  was  married  by  Mr.  Clunie,  of  the  old 
kirk.  I  will  go  to  the  session  clerk  to-night,  if  you  like,  or  it 
will  be  time  enough  the  morn.  He  is  never  far  out  of  the 
way,  being  an  old  man  like  myself,  half  idle,  half  independent. 
And,  speaking  of  that,  ye  must  see  my  garden,  Mr.  Charteris, 
though  this  is  hardly  the  best  time." 

"  You  seem  to  keep  it  in  excellent  order,"  said  Cuthbert. 


HARRY    MUIR.  88 

"  It's  no  bad,  you  see,  Mr.  Charteris,  the  bouse  is  my  own, 
md  so  is  it."  said  the  old  man,  with  a  little  natural  pride,  de- 
liring  to  intimate  that  the  substance  was  not  altogether  on  the 
Calder  side  of  Harry's  ancestry  ;  and  it  is  just  a  pleasure  to 
me  to  dibble  in  it  in  my  own  way.  Indeed  I  think  sometimes 
that  it's  this  work  of  mine,  and  the  pleasure  of  seeing  the  new 
life  aye  coming  up  through  the  soil,  that  makes  me  like  the 
bairns  so  well." 

"  It  has  not  always  so  pleasant  a  result,"  said  Charteris. 

"  Mostly,  I  think,  mostly,"  said  Alexander.  "  For  exam- 
ple, now,  how  could  ye  think  a  man  that  had  such  thoughts  in 
his  heart  to  a  mouse  or  a  gowan,  as  Burns  had,  could  harm  or 
be  unkindly  to  the  bits  of  buds  of  his  own  race  ;  though  to  be 
sure  I  am  not  minding  what  a  strong  part  evil  had  in  that 
grand  earthen  vessel.  Woes  me  !  that  what  might  have  been 
a  great  light  in  the  laud  should  be  but  a  beacon  on  the  black 
rocks  ;  but  I  never  mind  that  when  I  read  the  Cottar." 

"  The  Cottar  is  your  favourite  I  think,"  said  Charteris. 

"  Aye,  I  confess  I  like  them  all,  ill  as  some  of  them  are," 
said  the  poet's  countryman  ;  but  the  Cottar  is  near  perfect  to 
my  vision,  all  but  one  place,  where  he  puts  in  an  apostrophe 
that  breaks  the  story — that  about  '  Sweet  Jenny's  unsuspect- 
ing youth,'  you  mind.  I  aye  skip  that.  He  kent  ill  ower 
weel,  poor  man." 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


Here  hath  been  dawning 
Another  blue  day." 

Caelylk. 


The  next  morning,  Cuthbert  busied  himself  in  obtaining  ex- 
tracts from  registers.  The  proof  he  procured  was  very  full 
and  clear,  establishing  the  legal  as  well  as  the  moral  cer- 
tainty. 

That  day  the  family  at  Port  Dundas  were  pursuing  their 
ordinary  employments  with  a  greater  hush  and  stillness  about 
them  than  usual.  Martha  and  Rose  sat  together  sewing  in 
the  parlour.  They  were  both  very  silent — in  the  exhaustion 
of  hopelessness,  afraid  to  speak  to  each  other  of  the  one  great 
subject  which   absorbed   their   thoughts.     Agnes   had  gone, 


84  HARRY    MUIR. 

with  her  baby  in  her  arms,  to  the  kitchen  to  speak  to  Mrs. 
Rodger,  and  was  lingering  there  a  little,  willing  to  be  delivered 
from  herself ;  while  Violet  had  carried  out  a  little  wondering 
pre-occupied  heart  into  the  midst  of  a  juvenile  assembly  in 
front  of  the  house,  and  was  gradually  awaking  out  of  abstrac- 
tion into  vigorous  play. 

The  prospect  was  very  cheerful  from  the  window.  Yon- 
der little  Maggie  McGillivray,  with  unfailing  industry,  clipped 
and  sang  at  her  mother's  door  under  the  full  sunshine  of 
noon  ;  and  here  upon  the  pavement  the  little  form  of  Violet, 
poised  on  one  foot,  pursued  the  marble  ''  pitcher"  through  the 
chalked  '"beds"  necessary  for  the  game,  while  her  playmates 
stood  round  watching  lest  she  should  infringe  its  rules,  and 
Mrs.  McGarvie's  tawny  truculent  tiger  winked  in  the  sun- 
shine as  he  sat  complacently  looking  on.  The  very  din  of 
traffic  in  the  busy  street  was  cheering  and  life-like ;  but  the 
two  sisters  sat,  with  their  little  muslin  curtain  drawn,  sick  at 
heart. 

At  the  window  in  the  kitchen  Miss  Aggie  Rodger  stretched 
her  considerable  length  upon  the  deal  table,  while  the  hapless 
idle  Johnnie  occupied  his  usual  chair  by  the  fireside,  and  Miss 
Jeanie  in  a  dress  a  little,  and  only  a  little,  better  arranged 
than  her  sister,  sat  on  the  wooden  stool  near  her,  very  prim 
and  very  busy.  Miss  Aggie  had  laid  down  her  work,  and 
from  the  table  was  making  desperate  lunges  at  the  crowing 
baby. 

In  a  dingy  printed  gown,  girded  round  her  waist  by  an 
apron  professedly  white,  but  as  dingy  as  the  print,  and  with  a 
broad  black  ribbon  tying  down  her  widow's  cap,  Mrs.  Rodger 
stood  conversing  with  the  lodger.  "  This  is  Thursday,"  said 
Agnes,  '-by  the  end  of  next  week,  Mrs.  Rodger,  I  shall  be 
ready  with  the  rent." 

"  Very  weel,  Mrs.  Muir,"  responded  the  widow,  ''  what 
suits  you  will  suit  me.  It's  a  new  thing  to  me,  I  assure  you, 
to  be  needing  to  seek  siller.  When  Archie  was  to  the  fore, 
and  a  guid  man  he  was  to  me,  and  a  guid  father  to  the  weans, 
I  never  ance  thought  of  such  a  needcessity  as  this  ;  but  ane 
mauD  submit  to  what's  imposed  ;  and  then  there's  the  wearifu' 
taxes,  and  gas.  and  water.  I  declare  it's  enough  to  pit  folk 
daft — nae  suner  ae  body's  turned  frae  the  door  than  auither 
chaps — its's  just  an  even  down  imposition." 

''  Look  at  the  pet — Luick,  see  !  eh  !  ye  wee  rogue,  will  ye 
break  my  side  comb,"  cried  Miss  Aggie,  shaking  the  baby 


HARRY    MUIR.  85 

with  furious  affection,  from  which  the  young  mother  shrunk  a 
little. 

"  Dinna  be  sae  wild,  Aggie,"  said  her  prim  sister.  "  Ye'll 
frighten  the  wean." 

"  Never  you  fash  your  head,  Jean.  Are  ye  there,  ye  wee 
pet  ?  Eh,  if  he  has  na  pittin  his  finger  through  yin  o'  the 
holes  !  " 

Miss  Aggie  hurriedly  snatched  up  her  work,  and  the  little 
wife  drew  away  the  baby  in  alarm.  '•  Has  he  done  much 
harm?  "  asked  Agnes,  "  give  it  me,  and  I  will  put  it  in  again." 

"  It's  nane  the  waur,"  said  the  good-humoured  hoyden,  cut- 
ting out  the  injured  "  hole  "  with  scissors.  "  I'll  put  it  in  with 
a  stitch  of  point — it's  nae  size.  Jean's  at  a  new  stitch,  Mrs. 
Muir — did  ye  ever  see  it  ?  " 

"  It's  rather  a  pretty  thing,"  said  Miss  Jeanie,  exhibiting 
it  with  prim  complacence.  "  I  learned  it  from  Beenie  Ure,  at 
the  warehouse,  and  it's  no  ill  to  do.  I  was  thinking  of  coming 
ben.  to  show  Miss  Rose ;  but  it's  no  every  body  that  Beenie 
would  have  learned  it  to." 

"  Wha's  that  at  the  outer  door?  "  asked  the  idle  brother, 
whose  listless  unoccupied  life  had  made  him  quick  to  note  all 
passing  sounds. 

"  Losh  me  !  "  said  Miss  Aggie,  looking  up,  *'  its  Mr.  Muir, 
and  he's  in  an  awfu'  hurry." 

Agnes  ran  to  open  the  door.  It  was  indeed  Harry,  and 
the  face  of  pale  excitement  which  he  turned  upon  her,  struck 
the  poor  wife  to  the  heart.  Little  Violet  ran  up  the  stair  after 
him,  with  eager  curiosity.  There  was  a  suUenness,  quite  un- 
usual to  it,  on  the  colourless  face  of  poor  Harry.  He  passed 
his  wife  without  saying  a  word. 

Are  you  ill?  what  brings  you  home  at  this  time?  what  is 
the  matter,  Harry  ?  "  cried  the  terrified  Agnes. 

He  only  pressed  before  her  into  the  sitting-room. 

As  Harry  entered,  with  Agnes  and  little  Violet  close  be- 
hind him,  the  two  melancholy  workers  in  the  parlour  started 
iu  painful  surprise.  "  Harry  is  ill !  "  exclaimed  Hose,  with 
the  constant  instinct  of  apology,  as  she  threw  down  her  work 
on  the  table. 

'•  What  now,  Harry  ?  what  new  misfortune  has  come  upon 
us  now  ?  "  asked  the  sterner  voice  of  Martha. 

'•Harry,  what  is  it?  what  ails  you?"  said  poor  Agnes, 
clinging  to  his  arm. 

He  took  off  his  hat,  and  began  to  press  it  between  his 


86  HARRY    MUIR. 

hands.  "  Agnes,  Martha,"  said  the  young  man  with  a  husky 
dry  voice,  "  it's  not  my  fault — not  this  time — I've  lost  my 
situation." 

The  little  wife  uttered  a  low  cry,  and  looked  at  him  and 
the  baby.  Lost  his  situation  !  the  sole  means  of  getting  them 
bread. 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Harry?  "  asked  Martha. 

The  young  man's  sullen,  despairing  eye  glanced  round 
them  all.  Then  he  flung  his  hat  on  the  table,  and  threw  him- 
self into  the  arm-chair.  "  I  mean  that,  that's  all.  I've  lost 
my  situation." 

For  a  moment  they  stood  still,  looking  in  each  other's 
blank  faces,  as  people  do  at  the  first  stroke  of  a  calamity  ; 
then  Agnes  put  the  baby  into  the  arms  of  Kose,  and  herself 
glided  round  to  the  back  of  her  husband's  chair.  She  could  not 
bear  to  see  him  cast  himself  down  so,  and  hide  his  face  in  his 
hands.  Her  own  eyes  were  half  blinded  with  tears,  and  her 
gentle  heart  failing  ;  but  however  she  might  suffer  herself,  she 
could  not  see  Harry  so  cast  down. 

Violet  stole  again  to  the  stool  at  his  feet,  and  sat  looking 
up  in  his  face  with  the  breathless  interest  of  her  years.  Poor 
Agnes  tried  to  draw  away  the  hands  from  his  face.  He  re- 
sisted her  fretfully.  Rose  went  softly  about  the  room  with 
the  child,  hushing  its  baby  glee,  and  turning  tearful  eyes  on 
Harry  ;  but  Martha  stood,  fixed  as  she  had  risen  on  his  en- 
trance, her  hands  firmly  grasping  the  back  of  her  chair,  and  her 
head  bowed  down. 

The  tears  of  poor  Agnes  were  falling  upon  his  clasped  fin- 
gers. Hastily  the  unfortunate  young  man  uncovered  his  face. 
"  I  suppose  I  shall  have  to  sit  by  the  fire  like  John  Rodger, 
and  let  you  be  a  slave  for  me,"  he  exclaimed  bitterly,  clasping 
his  wife's  hands.  Agnes  could  do  nothing  but  weep  and  mur- 
mur "  Harry  !   Harry  !  " 

"  I  will  work  on  the  streets  first — I  will  do  anything,"  said 
Harry,  in  hysteric  excitement.  "  I  am  not  broken  down  yet, 
Agnes,  for  all  they  say.  I  can  work  for  you  yet.  I  will  be 
anything,  I  will  do  anything,  rather  than  let  want  come  to 
?/ow." 

And  the  little  wife  wept  over  the  hands  that  convulsively 
clasped  her  own,  and  could  only  sob  again,  "  Oh,  Harry, 
Harry!" 

"  Harry,"  said  Martha,  •'  what  have  you  done  ?  Let  us 
understand  it  clearly.     Answer  first  one  thing.     Lift  up  your 


HARRY    MUIR.  Si 

head,  and  answer  me,  Harry.  Is  the  fault  yours?  Is  it  a 
misfortune  or  a  sin  ?" 

He  did  not  meet  her  earnest,  anxious  eye  ;  but  he  answer- 
ed slowly,  '•  The  fault  is  not  mine,  Martha.  I  was.  indeed, 
exasperated  ;  but  it  was  not  me.  I  am  free  of  this,  Martha  ; 
it  was  no  blame  of  mine." 

She  looked  at  him  with  jealous  scrutiny  ;  she  fancied  there 
was  a  faltering  in  his  voice,  and  that  he  dared  not  lift  his  eyes 
to  meet  her  own,  and  the  misery  of  doubt  convulsed  Martha's 
heart.     Could  she  believe  him  ? 

"  If  it  is  so,"  she  said,  with  a  calmness  which  seemed  hard 
and  cold  to  Rose,  "  I  see  no  reason  you  have  to  be  so  much 
cast  down.  Agnes,  do  not  cry.  This  working  on  the  street 
is  quite  an  unnecessary  addition  to  the  shock  Harry  has 
given  us." 

"  If  it  is  so  !"  cried  Harry,  with  quick  anger.  "  Martha, 
do  you  not  believe  me  ?  will  you  not  trust  my  word  ?  " 

"  Be  composed,"  said  Martha,  herself  sitting  down  with  a 
hopeless  composure  quite  unusual  to  her ;  "  tell  us  what  the 
cause  is  calmly,  Harry.  It  is  a  great  misfortune  ;  but  every 
misfortune  is  to  be  borne.  Let  us  look  at  it  without  exagge- 
ration ;  tell  me  the  cause." 

He  had  worn  her  patience  out,  and  the  aspect  her  exhaus- 
tion took  was  that  of  extreme  patience.  It  surprised  and 
hushed  them  all.  Rose  laid  the  baby  in  his  cradle,  and 
stealthily  took  up  her  work.  Agnes  withdrew  her  hand  from 
Harry's  grasp  ;  even  he  himself  wiped  his  damp  brow,  and 
sat  erect  in  his  chair. 

"  I  went  to-day  to  the  Bank  to  get  a  cheque  cashed,"  he 
said,  in  his  usual  manner  ;  "  it  was  only  a  small  cheque,  only 
fifty  pounds,  and  I  put  the  notes  in  my  coat  pocket.  Every- 
body does  it.  I  did  in  that  respect  just  as  I  have  always 
done ;  but  I  was  robbed  to-day — robbed  of  the  whole  sum." 

"  What  then  ?  "  said  Martha,  breathlessly. 

'•  Of  course  I  went  at  once  and  told  Dick  Buchanan.  His 
father  is  not  at  home,  and  Dick  took  it  upon  him  to  reprove 
me  for  carelessness,  and  various  other  things,"  said  Harry, 
with  assumed  bravado.  "  So  we  got  to  high  words — I  confess 
it,  Martha.  I  was  not  inclined  to  submit  to  that  from  him, 
which  I  could  scarcely  bear  from  you.  And  the  result  was 
what  I  have  told  you — I  gave  up  my  situation,  or  rather  he 
dismissed  me." 

There  was  a  dead  silence,  for  Martha's  composure  hushed 


88  HARRY    MUIR. 

the  condolences  which  otherwise  would  have  comforted  poor 
Harry,  and  made  him  feel  himself  a  martyr  after  all. 

"  What  did  young  Buchanan  blame  you  for  ?  not,"  said 
Martha,  a  rapid  flush  covering  her  face  as  she  looked  at  her 
brother,  '•  not  with  any  suspicion — not  for  this.''^ 

He  returned  her  look  with  one  of  honest  and  unfeigned 
indignation.     "  Martha  !" 

''  I  did  not  know,"  said  Martha,  hurriedly.  "  The  lad  is  a 
coarse  lad.  I  did  not  know  what  you  meant.  What  did  he 
blame  you  for,  Harry?  " 

A  guilty  flush  stole  over  Harry's  face.  He  sighed  deeply. 
"  For  many  things,  Martha,"  he  said  with  simplicity,  '•  for 
which  you  have  blamed  me  often." 

The  stern  questioner  was  melted.  It  was  some  time  before 
she  could  resume  her  inquiries.  "And  how  did  it  happen? 
How  did  you  lose  the  money,  Harry?  "  said  Rose. 

"  It  was  no  such  wonder,"  answered  Harry  with  a  little 
impatience.  "  It  is  a  thing  that  happens  every  day — at  least 
many  men  have  been  robbed  before  me.  They  lie  in  wait 
about  the  banks,  these  fellows." 

"  And  what  way  did  you  put  it  into  your  pocket,  Harry?" 
said  Violet.      "  I  would  have  held  it  in  my  hand." 

'•  Be  quiet,  Violet ;  what  do  you  know  about  it  ? "  exclaim- 
ed Harry  angrily. 

"And  was  it  near  the  Bank  you  were  robbed?"  inquired. 
Agnes. 

Harry  faltered  a  little.     "  Not  very  far  from  it." 

"And  did  nobody  see  the  thief?  Surely  if  it  was  done  in 
the  open  street,  somebody  must  have  seen  who  did  it,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Harry's  eyes  were  cast  down.  "  No,"  he  muttered  in  a 
very  low  tone,  "  they  know  their  business  too  well  to  let  any- 
body see  them." 

'•  Was  it  done  in  the  street  ?  "  asked  Martha  quickly. 

He  faltered  still  more.  "  I  don't  know — not  exactly  in 
t'le  street,  I  think.  I  met  the  captain  of  one  of  our — of  one 
of  Buchanan's  ships  ;  and  I — ^I  went  with  him  to  a  place  he 
was  going  to  call  at.  I  suppose  it  might  be  done  about 
there." 

Poor  Harry  !  his  head  was  bowed  down — his  fingers  were 
fumbling  with  the  table-cover.  He  could  not  meet  the  eyes 
which  were  fixed  so  anxiously  upon  him. 

A  low  groan  came  from  Martha's  lips — it  was  hard  to  re- 


HARRY    MUIR.  89 

linquish  the  comfort  of  believing  that  his  besetting  sin  had 
no  share  in  this  misfortune- -hard  to  have  the  courage  quench- 
ed out  of  a  heart,  which  could  be  buoyant,  joyous — in  the  face 
of  trials  and  dangers  appointed  by  heaven,  to  be  suffered  and 
overcome — but  who  could  do  nothing  against  a  weakness  so 
inveterate  and  strong  as  this. 

There  was  nothing  more  said  for  a  time — they  all  felt  this 
add  a  pang  to  their  misfortunes ;  but  while  Martha's  eyes 
were  still  fixed  on  the  ground,  and  Rose  and  Agnes  forbore 
to  look  at  him,  in  delicate  care  for  his  humiliation,  Harry  had 
already  lifted  his  head,  and  growing  familiar  with  his  position, 
forgot  that  there  was  in  it  any  humiliation  at  all. 

"  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  what  will  be  very  hard 
upon  us — very  hard  indeed — these  monied  men  have  hearts 
like  the  nether  millstone.  Agnes,  I  don't  know  what  you  will 
do  with  your  accounts.  I  have  lost  my  quarter's  salary  as 
well  as  my  situation." 

The  poor  little  wife  looked  at  him  aghast.  She  had  been 
scheming  already  how  she  could  get  these  accounts  paid,  and 
begin  to  "  the  opening  "  herself,  to  keep  them  afloat  until 
Harry  should  hear  of  some  other  situation  ; — but  this  crown- 
ing cahimity  struck  her  dumb. 

••  They  will  hold  me  responsible  for  the  whole  fifty  pounds," 
said  Harry,  in  a  low  voice.  '•  I  don't  think  Mr.  Buchanan 
himself  would  have  kept  back  this  that  is  owing  me — this 
that  I  have  worked  for.  I  should  not  care  so  much  for  the 
whole  debt,-"  said  poor  Harry  with  glistening  eyes,  ''  because 
it  would  be  a  spur  to  me  to  labour  more  strenuously,  and  I 
don't  doubt  we  might  pay  it  off  in  a  year  or  two — but  to 
throw  me  on  the  world,  and  keep  back  this  poor  fifteen  pounds 
— it  is  very  cruel — to  leave  us  without  anything  to  depend  on, 
until  I  can  get  another  situation — it  is  very  hard — but  they 
do  not  know  what  it  is  to  want  five  pounds,  those  prosperous 
men.  Mr.  Buchanan  himself  would  never  have  done  it — and 
to  think  that  Dick  should  turn  upon  me  !  " 

'-  It  is  well,"  said  Martha,  harshly.  •'  I  am  pleased  that  he 
has  kept  this  money — how  we  are  to  do  I  cannot  tell — but  I 
would  not  have  had  you  take  it,  Harry.  What  you  have  lost 
was  theirs,  and  we  must  make  it  up.  Some  way  or  other  we 
will  struggle  through,  and  it  is  far  better  that  you  did  not 
become  further  indebted  to  them  by  receiving  this." 

Harsh  as  her  tone  was,  it  was  not  blame — poor  Harry's 
sanguine  spirit  rose.     He  could  take  some  comfort  from  the 


yO  HARRY    MUIK. 

little  pride  that  would  rather  descend  to  the  very  depths  of 
poverty  than  have  such  a  debt  as  this.  The  galling  burden 
seemed  for  the  moment  to  withdraw  Martha's  thoughts  from 
the  more-enduring  misery,  the  weakness  that  plunged  him  into 
so  many  misfortunes. 

But  Agnes  sadly  considering  how  to  satisfy  the  poor 
widow,  Mrs.  Rodger,  who  could  not  do  without  her  money, 
and  how  to  apologise  to  butcher,  baker,  and  grocer, — could 
take  no  comfort ; — darkly  the  cloud  of  grave  care  settled 
down  upon  the  soft  young  features.  "  But  what  will  I  do 
with  Mrs.  Bodger,"  said  Agnes,  "  and  Waters,  and  Mr.  Flem- 
ing—oh Martha  !  " 

"  I  will  speak  to  them  myself,"  said  Martha,  compressing 
her  lips  painfully.  "  You  shall  not  be  subjected  to  this, 
Agnes — I  will  speak  to  them  myself" 

'•  And  Mrs.  McGarvie,"  said  Agnes,  "  I  might  have  done 
the  things  myself  if  I  had  only  known — and  Mrs.  Rodger." 

"  Mrs.  Rodger  must  be  paid,"  said  Martha.  "  I  am  going 
to  the  warehouse  to-day — we  must  see — we  must  think  about 
it  all,  Agnes." 

But  they  made  no  reference  to  Harry.  Rose,  who  had 
said  nothing  all  this  time,  was  already  working  very  rapidly, 
pausing  for  an  instant  sometimes  to  look  round  upon  them 
with  affectionate  wistfulness,  but  scarcely  slackening  the  speed 
of  her  needle  even  then  ;  there  was  such  occasion  for  labour 
now,  as  there  had  never  been  before. 

Poor  Harry  !  He  sat  in  silence,  and  heard  them  discuss 
those  sad  economics — he  saw  that  they  made  no  reference  to 
him  ;  and  the  bitterness  of  having  lost  the  confidence  of  those 
whose  strong  and  deep  affection  could  not  be  doubted,  even  by 
the  most  morbid  pride,  smote  him  to  the  heart.  A  momen- 
tary perception  of  his  position  disclosed  itself  to  Harry,  and 
with  the  instant  spring  of  his  elastic  temperament,  he  felt 
that  to  perceive  was  to  correct,  and  that  the  power  lay  with 
himself  to  recover  all  that  he  had  lost.  With  a  sudden  start 
he  turned  to  his  wife  and  his  sister. 

"Agnes! — Martha! — why  do  you  look  so  miserable?  I 
will  get  another  situation.  We  may  be  better  yet  than  we 
ever  were  before." 

"  And  so  we  may,"  said  Martha,  pressing  her  hand  to  her 
forehead,  '•  and  so  we  may — we  will  always  hope  and  look  for 
the  best." 

Her  voice  sounded  like  a  knell.     Asjnes,  who  was   not 


HARRY    MUIK.  91 

quick  to  discover  shades  of  implied  meaning,  brightened  at 
the  words — but  Rose,  who  deprecated  and  softened  in  other 
cases,  could  oppose  nothing  to  this.  It  made  herself  sick  and 
hopeless — for.  worse  than  all  impatience  or  harshness,  was  this 
conscious  yielding  to  fruitless  and  false  hope,  as  one  yields  to 
a  fretful  child. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"  NoM'  shall  you  see  me  do  my  daily  penance. 
Mean,  say  you  ?— "tis  the  grander  suffering  then. 
And  thus  I  bear  my  yoke." — 

It  had  been  Martha's  custom  at  all  times  to  take  upon  her- 
self the  disagreeable  things  of  daily  life.  A  turbulent  stormy 
spirit,  it  was  impossible  to  form  any  apprehension  of  her 
character  without  taking  into  account  the  harsh  and  strong 
pride  which  had  come  undiminished  through  all  her  trials, 

" the  spurns 

"^""hich  patient  merit  of  the  unworthy  takes," — 

which  are  only  felt  by  the  refined  poor.  These  petty  indigni- 
ties were  bitter  to  Martha,  yet  she  had  a  certain  satisfaction 
in  compelling  herself  to  endure  them.  To  stand  among  the 
indiscriminate  host  who  maintained  themselves  as  she  did ;  to 
submit  her  work  to  the  inspection  of  some  small  official ;  to 
listen  patiently  to  comments  upon  it,  made  for  the  sake  of 
preserving  a  needful  importance  and  superiority  ;  these  and 
many  a  trifling  insult  more  were  very  hard  to  bear,  but  there  was 
a  bitter  pleasure  in  bowing  to  them,  a  stormy  joy  in  the  con- 
scious force  with  which  she  subdued  her  own  rebellious  na- 
ture, and  put  her  foot  upon  its  neck.  It  was  conquering  her 
pride,  she  thought,  and  she  conquered  it  proudly,  using  its 
own  might  to  vanquish  itself 

But  though  Martha  could  bear  needful  humiliations  her- 
self, this  pride  of  hers,  which  enabled  her  to  bear  them,  built 
a  mighty  wall  round  her  children.  She  could  not  bear  humil- 
iation to  brother  or  sister  ;  they  were  hers — heart  of  her 
heart,  crown  of  her  honour,  and  with  the  constant  watchful- 
ness of  jealous  love  she  guarded  them  from  derogation.     With 


92  HARRY    MUIR. 

courage  unfailing  she  could  bear  what  was  needful  to  be  borne 
if  it  might  be  in  her  own  person,  but  if  it  fell  on  them,  the 
blow  struck  to  her  heart. 

And  so  she  passed  through  crowds  of  prosperous  people, 
who  never  bestowed  a  second  look  upon  her — a  woman  grow- 
ing old,  with  grey  streaks  in  her  hair,  and  harsh  lines  in  her 
face.  A  jioor  woman,  distressed  and  full  of  care,  what  was 
there  to  look  at  ?  But  if  some  magic  had  changed  the  bodily 
form,  which  was  a  veil  to  her,  into  the  person  of  some  noble 
despot  king,  foiled  and  despairing,  there  was  enough  to  rivet 
the  eyes  of  a  world. 

She  was  carrying  back  a  fortnight's  laborious  work,  and 
filling  up  all  the  interstices  of  the  greater  misery,  which  did  not 
change,  were  a  hundred  shifting  plans  of  how  to  distribute 
this  pittance.  A  strange  chaos  was  in  Martha's  mind  as  she 
went  through  those  crowded  streets.  Broken  prayers,  so  often 
repeated  that  tbey  came  vacantly  into  her  mind  often,  and 
often  fell  upon  her  like  strong  inspirations,  forcing  her  almost 
to  cry  aloud  in  an  agony  of  entreaty,  mingled  with  those 
painful  calculations  of  the  petty  sum  she  was  about  to  receive, 
which  hovered  like  so  many  irritating  insects  over  the  dull 
and  heavy  pain  in  her  heart.  The  cloud  would  not  disperse  ; 
the  weight  would  not  lighten  from  her.  Harry,  at  home,  had 
smiles  of  new  confidence  on  his  face  already,  and  had  talked 
Agnes  and  Bose  into  hope  ;  but  the  days  of  hope  were  past 
for  Martha.  She  desired  to  submit ;  she  longed  to  bend  her 
neck  meekly  under  the  yoke,  and  acquiesce  in  what  God  sent ; 
but  the  struggle  was  hard,  and  it  seemed  to  herself  that  she 
could  have  submitted  easily  to  any  afiliction  but  this — this 
was  the  intolerable  pain — and  this  was  her  fate. 

The  warehouse  was  in  the  Candleriggs,  and  a  spruce 
clerk  received  the  work  from  her,  and  paid  her  the  joint 
wages  of  Rose  and  herself  for  the  fortnight's  labour.  It  was 
thirty  shillings — a  very  little  sum,  though  they  thought  it 
good.  On  rare  occasions  the  weekly  produce  of  their  united 
toil  was  as  much  as  a  pound,  but  this  was  a  more  usual 
amount. 

Filling  her  little  basket  with  the  renewed  and  increased 
supply  of  work  given  at  her  request,  Martha  turned  to  one  of 
the  dim  streets  of  counting-houses  which  surround  the  Ex- 
change. In  the  same  line  of  buildings  the  Buchanans  had 
their  ofiice,  but  Martha  was  not  going  there.  She  as- 
cended another  dusty  stair  at  some  little  distance,  and  enter- 
ing a  smaller  office,  asked  for  Mr.  Soramerville. 


HARRY    MUIR.  93 

Mr.  Sommerville  was  a  ruddy  comfortable  man,  in  an  easy 
chair ;  once  a  poor  Ayrshire  Lid,  now,  totally  forgetful  of 
that  time,  a  cautious,  shrewd,  wealthy  merchant,  richer  than 
many  of  the  splendid  commercial  magnates  who  lightened  the 
dim  sky  around  him.  But  some  claim  of  distant  kindred  or 
ancient  acquaintance  connected  him  with  the  family  of  the 
Muirs :  though  his  look  of  doubt  as  Martha  entered,  and  his 
laconic  greeting,  '•  Oh,  Miss  Muir,"  when  he  recognised  her, 
showed  that  this  claim  was  of  the  slenderest  kind. 

'•  I  have  come  to  speak  to  you  about  my  brother,"  said 
Martha,  standing  before  him  with  a  flush  upon  her  face  :  "  I 
mean  I  have  taken  the  liberty,  Mr.  Sommerville,  for  Harry 
has  lost  his  situation." 

'•  What !  the  place  I  got  for  him  in  Buchanan's  ?  "  ex- 
claimed the  merchant.  "  What  has  he  done  that  for  1  some 
misconduct  I  suppose." 

"  No  misconduct,"  said  Martha,  with  sudden  courage ; 
"  nor  have  you  the  slightest  ground  for  supposing  so.  Harry 
had  money  stolen  from  him  on  his  way  between  the  bank  and 
the  oflice — a  thing  which  no  one  could  foresee,  and  which  has 
happened  to  many  a  wiser  man.  This  is  the  cause  ;  but  this 
is  not  misconduct." 

Mr.  Sommerville  waved  his  hand  impatiently.  "  Yes,  yes, 
I  understand;  I  see.  Money  stolen  from  him  :  /never  had 
money  stolen  from  me.  But  I  never  will  recommend  a  man 
again  ;  they  invariably  turn  out  iU.      How  much  was  it?" 

•'  Fifty  pounds,"  said  Martha,  "  for  all  of  which  he  is  res- 
ponsible, and  if  he  were  but  in  another  situation,  which  we 
would  not  fail  to  pay." 

"  Oh  yes,  that's  all  very  well,"  said  the  merchant,  "  but 
how  is  he  to  get  the  other  situation?  There  must  have  been 
great  carelessness,  you  know,  or  they  never  would  have  dismiss- 
ed him.  I  heard  he  was  wild  ;  young  Buchanan  told  me  he 
was  wild,  but  I  did  not  expect  it  was  to  end  so  soon." 

"  And  neither  it  shall,"  said  Martha,  controlling,  with  ab- 
solute physical  pain,  the  fierce  hot  anger  of  her  mother-like 
love.  "  Mr.  Buchanan  has  already  taken  from  Harry  a  pro- 
portion of  this  sum.  I  pledge  myself  that  the  rest  shall  be 
paid." 

'"You!"  He  looked  at  her.  Certainly,  her  name  would 
not  have  been  of  the  smallest  importance  at  a  bill;  but  glim- 
merings of  truth  higher  than  bills,  or  money  values,  will  flash 
sometimes  even  on  stolid  men.     For  a  moment  his  eyes  rested 


94  HARRY    MUIR. 

strangely  upon  her  ;  and  then  he  turned  away  his  head,  and 
said,  "Humph!"  in  a  kind  of  confidential  under  tone.  The 
good  man  rubbed  his  bushy  hair  in  perplexity.  He  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of  this. 

"  But  unless  Harry  has  employment  we  can  do  nothing," 
said  Martha,  "  all  that  is  in  our  power,  without  him,  must  be 
the  mere  necessities  of  living.  You  have  helped  us  before, 
Mr.   Sommerville." 

"  If  that  was  to  be  a  reason  for  exerting  myself  again,  in 
every  case  of  distress  that  comes  to  me,"  said  the  merchant 
with  complacency,  "  I  can  tell  you,  I  might  give  up  all  other 
business  at  once ;  but  recommending  a  man  who  turns  out  ill 
is  a  very  unpleasant  thing  to  creditable  people.  There  is 
Buchanan  now — of  course  he  took  my  word  for  your  brother 
— and  I  assure  you  I  felt  it  quite  a  personal  reflection  when 
his  son  told  me  that  Muir  was  wild." 

"  And  his  son  dared  !*"  exclaimed  Martha,  with  uncon- 
troulable  indignation,  "  and  this  youth  who  does  evil  of  volun- 
tary intent  and  purpose  is  believed  when  he  slanders  Harry  ! 
Harry,  whom  this  very  lad — that  he  should  have  power,  vulgar 
and  coarse  as  he  is,  with  a  brother  of  mine  ! — has  betrayed 
and  beguiled  into  temptation.  But  I  do  wrong  to  speak  of 
this.  The  present  matter  is  no  fault  of  Harry's,  yet  it  is  the 
sole  reason  why  he  loses  his  situation ;  and  I  see  no  ground 
here  for  any  one  saying  that  my  brother  has  disgraced  them." 

Strong  emotion  is  always  powerful.  It  might  be  that  Mr. 
Sommerville  had  no  objection  to  hear  Richard  Buchanan  con- 
demned. It  might  be  that  Martha's  fierce  defence  awoke 
some  latent  generosity  in  the  mind  she  addressed.  However 
that  might  be,  the  merchant  did  not  resent  her  outburst,  but 
answered  it  indistinctly  in  a  low  voice,  and  ended  with  some- 
thing about  "  partiality,"  and  "  quite  natural." 

"  I  am  not  partial,"  said  Martha  hastily.  '•  No  one  has 
ever  seen,  no  one  can  ever  see,  Harry's  faults  as  I  do.  I  am 
not  indifi"erent  enough  to  pass  over  any  one  defect  he  has ; 
but  Harry  is  young.  He  has  reached  the  time  when  men  are 
but  experimenting  in  independent  life.  Why  should  he  lose 
his  good  name  for  a  common  misfortune  like  this  ?" 

'•  You  should  have  stayed  in  Ayr,"  said  Mr.  Sommerville, 
with  a  little  weariness.  "  I  don't  want  to  injure  his  good 
name  !  I  have  no  object  in  hurting  your  brother ;  indeed,  for 
the  sake  of  the  old  town,  and  some  other  things,  I  would  help 
him  to  a  situation  if  I  could.  I'll  just  speak  to  my  cash- 
keeper.     He  knows  about  vacant  places  better  than  I  do." 


HARRY    MUIR.  95 

And  parti}'  tn  get  rid  of  a  visitor  whose  unusual  earnest- 
ness embarrassed  him  ;  partly  out  of  a  sudden  apprehension 
that  he  might  possibly  be  called  upon  by  and  by  for  pecuniary 
help,  if  no  situation  could  be  got  for  Harry,  Mr.  Sommerville 
left  his  easy  chair,  and  had  a  consultation  in  the  outer  office 
with  his  confidential  clerk.  Very  weary  and  faint,  Martha 
remained  standing  in  the  private  room.  Many  a  time  in  her 
own  heart,  with  the  bitterness  of  disappointed  hope  and 
wounded  love,  she  had  condemned  Harry,  but  with  the  fierce- 
ness of  a  lion-mother,  her  heart  sprang  up  to  defend  him  when 
another  voice  pronounced  his  sentence.  She  could  not  bear 
the  slightest  touch  of  censure,  instinctively  she  dared  and  de- 
fied whosoever  should  accuse  him,  and  no  one  had  liberty  to 
blame  Harry  except  the  solitary  voice  which  came  to  her  in 
the  night  watches  wrung  out  of  her  own  heart. 

In  a  short  time  Mr.  Sommerville  returned, 

"  I  hear  of  one  place,  Miss  Muir,"  said  the  merchant ; 
"but  there  is  security  needed,  and  that  might  be  a  drawback 
— seventy  pounds  a  year — a  good  salary,  but  then  they  want 
security  for  five  hundred  pounds.  If  you  could  manage  that, 
the  place  is  a  very  good  one — Rowan  and  Thomson — and  it 
is  a  traveller  they  want — not  so  much  confinement  as  in  an 
office  ;  it  might  suit  your  brother  very  well,  if  it  were  not  for 
the  security." 

"  It  would  not  do,"  said  Martha,  quickly.  "  Harry  cannot 
be  a  traveller,  it  would  kill  him." 

Mr.  Sommerville  elevated  his  eyebrows.  "  Cannot  be  a 
traveller  !  Upon  my  word,  Miss  Muir,  to  say  that  you  came 
asking  ray  help  ;  you  are  very  fastidious.  I  fancied  your  bro- 
ther would  be  glad  of  any  situation." 

'•  Not  this — only  not  this,"  said  Martha  in  haste,  as  if  she 
almost  feared  to  listen  to  the  proposal.  '•  Harry  is  not  strong. 
I  thank  you,  Mr.  Sommerville,  I  thank  you  ;  but  it  would  kill 
him." 

'•  Then,  I  know  of  nothing  else,"  said  the  merchant,  coldly 
resuming  his  seat.  "  If  I  hear  of  anything,  I  will  let  you 
know." 

Cold  words  of  course,  often  said,  never  remembered.  Mar- 
tha turned  away  down  the  dusty  stairs,  blaming  herself  for  thus 
wasting  the  time  in  which  she  might  have  been  working ;  but 
she  could  work — could  give  daily  bread  to  the  little  household 
still — and  that  was  the  greatest  comfort  of  her  life. 

Far   different  from  the   mill-girls  and  engineers  of  Port 


06  HARRY    MUIR. 

Dundas  was  the  passing  population  in  these  dusty  streets. 
Elderly  merchantmen  with  ease  and  competence  in  every  fold 
of  their  spotless  broadcloth — young  ones  exuberant  and  un- 
clouded, casting  off  the  yoke  of  business  as  lightly,  out  of  the 
office,  as  they  bore  it  sensibly  within,  met  Martha  at  every 
step.  Here  come  some,  fresh  from  the  Exchange.  You  can 
see  they  are  discussing  speculations,  calculating  elaborate 
chances,  perhaps  "  in  the  way  of  business,"  hazarding  a 
princely  fortune,  which  may  be  doubled  or  dissolved  before 
another  year.  And  a  group  of  young  men  meet  them,  louder 
and  more  demonstrative,  circling  round  one  who  is  clearly  the 
object  of  interest  to  all.  Why  ? — he  is  going  out  to  India  to- 
morrow to  make  his  fortune — and  save  that  it  gives  him  a 
little  importance,  and  makes  him  the  lion  of  the  day,  envied 
by  all  his  compeers,  this  youth  who  is  flushed  just  now  with  a 
little  excitement,  in  reality  feels  no  more  about  his  Indian 
voyage,  than  if  it  were  but  a  summer  expedition  to  the  Gair- 
loch,  or  Roseneath  Bay  ;  and  is  much  more  comfortably  as- 
sured of  making  his  fortune,  than  he  would  be  of  bringing 
home  a  creditable  amount  of  trout,  if  the  event  of  to-morrow 
vras  a  day's  fishing,  instead  of  the  beginning  of  an  eventful 
life.  Of  the  youths  around  him,  one  will  be  the  representative 
partner  of  his  '•  house  "  in  far  America  before  the  year  is  out ; 
another  will  feed  wool  in  the  bush  :  another  learn  to  adorn  his 
active  northern  life,  with  oriental  pomps  and  luxuries  by  the 
blue  waves  of  the  Bosphorus.  And  among  them  all  there  is  a 
certain  fresh  confident  unconscious  life,  which,  so  far  as  it 
goes,  carries  you  with  it  in  sympathy.  It  is  not  refined,  it  is 
not  profound,  it  has  little  elevation  and  little  depth  ;  but 
withal  it  has  such  a  fresh  breeze  about  it,  such  a  continual  un- 
ceasing motion,  such  an  undoubting  confidence  in  its  own  suc- 
cess, that  this  simplicity  of  worldliness  moves  you  as  if  it  were 
something  nobler.  Not  true  enough,  nor  great  enough  to  call 
the  solemn  "  God  speed"  out  of  your  heart;  yet  you  cannot 
choose,  but  wish  the  young  adventurers  well. 

And  there  are  clerks  more  hurried  ;  young  men  with  quick 
business  step  and  eye,  whose  sons  shall  be  merchants'  sons,  as 
carelessly  prosperous  as  are  the  young  masters  in  the  ofiice 
DOW ;-  but  some  who  will  live  and  die  poor  clerks,  yet  who  will 
have  their  share  of  enjoyed  life  as  well,  and  end  their  days  as 
pleasantly,  pass  and  repass  among  the  crowd.  Some,  too,  who 
will  sink  and  fall,  who  will  break  hearts,  and  give  fair  hopes 
the  death-blow.      So  much  young  life ;  so  many  souls,  each  to 


HARRY    MUIR.  97 

make  its  own  existence  for  itself,  and  not  another.  There 
come  solemn  thoughts  into  the  mind  which  looks  on  such  a 
scene. 

And  Martha,  half  abstracted,  looked  on  it,  comparing  them 
with  Harrj.  But  there  was  none  like  Harry — not  one ;  the 
heart  that  clasped  its  arms  about  him  in  his  misfortune — the 
dry  eye  which  watched  the  night  long  with  schemes  for  his 
prosperity — could  see  none  worthy  to  be  placed  beside  him. 
Poor  Harry  !  his  sister  could  not  see  these  others,  for  his  con- 
tinual shadow  resting  on  her  heart. 

When  Martha  had  nearly  reached  the  Exchange,  she  heard 
some  one  calling  after  her.  It  was  John  Buchanan  ;  he  came 
up  out  of  breath. 

•'  Will  you  tell  Harry  that  I  think  he  should  come  down 
and  see  my  father,  Miss  Muir  ?  "  gasped  John.  "  I've  been 
chasing  you  for  ten  minutes — you  walk  so  fast.  My  father's 
come  home,  and  he's  shut  up  with  Dick.  I  don't  think  he's 
pleased.  If  Harry  would  come  down  to-morrow,  it  might  be 
all  right  again." 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"  Tis  the  weak  who  are  overbold  ;  your  strong  man  can  count  upon  the  might  he 
knoweth  ;  your  feeble  one,  in  fancy  sets  no  bound  to  his  bravery,  nor  thinks  it  time  to 
fail  till  there  is  need  of  standing." 

"  Seventy  pounds  a-year,"  repeated  Harry  Muir,  as  his  sisters 
and  his  wife  sat  round  him,  all  of  them  now  busy  with  the 
"  opening,"  while  Violet  kept  the  baby  ;  "  and  my  uncle  might 
be  security,  '  say  for  three  hundred  pounds.'  It's  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  form,  you  know.  Perhaps  they  would  take  him  for 
three  hundred  instead  of  five ;  and  Rowan  and  Thomson  is  a 
very  good  house.  I  think  I  might  go  down  to-morrow  and 
inquire." 

'•  It  would  not  do — you  must  not  think  of  it,"  said  Martha 
quickly. 

••  Why  must  I  not  think  of  it?  I  don't  believe  John 
Buchanan  is  right,  Martha,  about  his  father  quarrelling  with 
Dick  for  sending  me  away.  And,  besides,  how  could  I  return 
there  where  they  all  knew  I  was  dismissed — dis7nissed,  Mar- 


98  HARRY    MUIR. 

tha  ;  besides  Dick's  own  abuse.  I  could  not  do  it.  I  would 
rather  do  anything  than  go  back; — and  seventy  pounds  a- 
year !  " 

"  Harry,  let  us  rather  labour  for  you  night  and  day." 

His  face  grew  red  and  angry.  "  Why,  Martha  ?  I  am 
not  a  child  surely  that  I  cannot  be  trusted.  What  do  you 
mean  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Martha  bitterly,  "  you  are  not  a  child  ;  you  are 
a  full-grown  man,  with  all  the  endowments  a  man  needs  to  do 
something  in  the  world.  You  can  constrain  the  will  of  these 
poor  girls,  who  think  of  you  every  hour  they  live  ;  and  you  can 
assert  your  independence,  and  be  proud,  and  refuse  to  bear 
the  reproof  you  have  justly  earned.  God  forgive  me  if  I  am 
too  hard  ;  but  you  wear  me  out,  Harry.  When  I  say  you 
must  not  seek  for  a  fatal  occupation  like  this,  have  I  not  cause? 
Do  I  need  to  descend  to  particulars  ?  Would  you  have  me 
enter  into  detail?" 

"  Martha  !  Martha  !  "  The  trembling  hand  of  Rose  was  on 
her  arm,  anxiously  restraining  her ;  and  Agnes  looked  up  into 
the  sullen  cloud  on  Harry's  face,  whispering,  "  Do  not  be  an- 
gry ;  she  does  not  mean  it,  Harry." 

"  Is  it  because  I  am  in  your  power  that  you  taunt  me, 
Martha  ?  "  he  said,  fiercely. 

Martha  compressed  her  lips  till  they  grew  white  ;  she  did 
not  answer.  After  the  first  outburst,  not  even  the  cruel  in- 
justice of  this  received  a  reply.  She  had  herself  to  subdue 
before  she  could  again  approach  him. 

And  the  two  peacemakers,  hovering  between  them,  endeav- 
oured, with  anxious  pains,  to  heal  the  breach  again.  The 
young  wife  whispered  deprecatory  words  in  Harry's  ear,  while 
she  laid  her  hand  on  Martha  :  but  pitiful  looks  were  all  the 
artillery  of  Rose  ;  they  softened  both  the  belligerents. 

"  I  don't  care  what  happens  to  us  out  of  the  house,  Martha," 
said  Rose  at  last ;  "  but  surely  we  may  be  at  peace  within. 
There  are  not  so  many  of  us  in  the  world  ;  we  should  be  al- 
ways friends." 

And  Martha's  anger  was  shortlived.  "  I  spoke  rashly," 
she  said,  with  strange  humility  ;  "  let  us  say  no  more  of  this 
now." 

And  there  was  little  more  said  that  night. 

But  Harry  would  not  go  to  the  office  again  to  see  Mr.  Bu- 
chanan ;  and,  poor  as  they  were,  none  of  them  desired  to  sub- 
ject him  to  this  humiliation.     So  he  went  out  instead   the 


HARRY    MUIR.  99 

next  morning  to  make  bootless  inquiries  and  write  bootless 
letters — exertions  in  which  there  was  no  hope  and  little  spirit ; 
went  out  gloomil3^  and  in  gloom  returned,  seeking  comfort 
which  they  had  not  to  bestow. 

But  while  poor  Harry  was  idle  perforce,  a  spasmodic  indus- 
try had  fallen  upon  the  rest.  They  scarcely  paused  to  take  the 
simple  meals  of  necessary  life  ;  and  the  pleasant  hour  of  family 
talk  at  tea  was  abridged  to-night  to  ten  minutes,  sadly  grudged 
by  the  eager  labourers,  on  whose  toil  alone  depended  now  the 
maintenance  of  the  family.  Little  Violet  stood  by  the  table 
with  a  clean  towel  in  her  hand,  preparing,  with  some  impor- 
tance, to  wash  the  cups  and  saucers  when  they  had  finished. 
But  Harry  lingered  over  the  table,  leaning  his  head  on  his 
hand,  and  trifling  with  something  which  lay  by  him.  Violet, 
in  housewifery  impatience,  moved  about  among  the  cups,  and 
rung  them  against  each  other  to  rouse  his  attention,  and  let 
him  see  he  retarded  her ;  but  Harry's  mind  was  too  much  oc- 
cupied to  notice  that. 

"  Harry,"  cried  Agnes,  rather  tremulously  from  the  inner 
room,  "  I  see  Mr.  Gilchrist  on  the  road.  He  is  coming  here. 
What  can  it  be?  " 

Harry  started  and  put  away  his  cup.  They  all  became 
anxious  and  nervous ;  and  Agnes  hastily  drew  her  seat  close 
to  the  door  of  the  room,  that  she  might  hear  what  the  visitor 
said,  though  her  baby,  half  dressed,  lay  on  her  knee,  very 
sleepy  and  impatient,  and  she  could  not  make  her  appearance 
till  she  had  laid  him  in  his  little  crib  for  the  night. 

Thus  announced,  Mr.  Gilchrist  entered  the  room.  He  was  a 
massy  large  man,  with  grizzled  hair,  which  had  been  reddish  in 
his  younger  days,  and  kindly  grey  eyes  gleaming  out  from  un- 
der shaggy  eyebrows.  His  linen  was  spotless  ;  but  his  dress 
though  quite  appropriate  and  respectable,  was  not  very  trim 
little  layers  of  snuff  encumbered  the  folds  of  his  black  waistcoat 
and  from  a  steel  chain  of  many  complicated  links,  attached  to 
the  large  round  silver  watch  in  his  fob,  hung  two  massy  gold 
seals,  one  of  them  engraven  with  an  emphatic  ''J.  G."  of  his  own, 
the  other  an  inheritance  from  his  father.  There  was  no  mis- 
taking the  character  and  standing  of  this  good  and  honourable 
man  :  his  father  before  him  had  been  head  clerk  in  an  exten- 
sive mercantile  house  in  Glasgow ;  his  sons  after  him  might 
be  that,  or  greater  than  that.  With  his  two  hundred  pounds 
a-year,  he  was  bringing  up  such  a  family  as  should  hereafter 
do  honour  and  service  to  their  country  and   community  ;  and 


100  HARRY    MUIR. 

for  himself,  no  better  citizen  did  his  endeavour  for  the  pros- 
perity of  the  town,  or  prayed  with  a  warmer  heart.  "  Let  Glas- 
gow flourish." 

"  Harry,  my  man,"  said  Mr.  Gilchrist,  as  he  held  Harry's 
hand  in  his  own,  and  shook  it  slowly,  "  I  am  very  sorry  about 
this." 

'•  Well,  it  cannot  be  helped,"  said  Harry  with  a  little  as- 
sumed carelessness,  '•  we  must  make  the  best  we  can  of  it  now." 

"  Ay,  no  doubt,"  said  the  Cashier,  as  he  turned  to  shake 
hands  with  Rose  and  Martha,  •'  to  sit  down  and  brood  over  a 
misfortune,  is  not  the  way  to  mend  it ;  but  it  may  not  be  so 
bad  as  you  think.  Angry  folk  will  cool  down,  Harry,  if  ye 
leave  them  to  themselves  a  little." 

Harry's  heart  began  to  beat  high  with  anxiety — and  Rose 
cast  furtive  glances  at  Mr.  Gilchrist,  as  she  went  on  nervously 
with  her  work,  almost  resenting  Martha's  calmness.  But  Ag- 
nes had  entered  just  then  from  the  inner  room,  and  the  kindly 
greeting  which  the  visitor  gave  her,  occupied  another  moment, 
during  which  the  excitable  Harry  sat  on  thorns,  and  little  Vio- 
let, holding  the  last  cup  which  she  had  washed  in  her  hands, 
polished  it  round  and  round  with  her  towel,  turning  solemn 
wide  open  eyes  all  the  time  upon  this  messenger  of  fate. 

'•I  have  a  letter  from  Mr.  Buchanan,"  said  Mr.  Gilchrist, 
drawing  slowly  from  his  pocket  a  note  written  on  the  blue  of- 
fice paper.  Harry  took  it  with  eager  fingers.  Agnes  came 
to  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  looked  over  his  shoulder.  Rose, 
trying  to  be  very  quiet,  bent  her  head  over  her  work  with  a 
visible  tremor,  and  Martha  suffered  the  piece  of  muslin  she 
had  been  working  at,  to  fall  on  her  knee,  and  looked  with 
grave  anxiety  at  Harry. 

Round  and  round  went  the  glancing  tea-cup  in  the  snowy 
folds  of  the  towel  which  covered  Lottie's  little  hands,  for  she 
too  forgot  what  she  was  doing  in  curious  interest  about  this ; 
a  slight  impatient  exclamation  concluded  the  interval  of  breath- 
less silence.  *'  No,  I  cannot  take  it — it  is  very  kind,  I  dare- 
say, of  Mr.  Buchanan ;  but  I  cannot  accept  this,"  exclaimed 
Harry  as  he  handed  the  letter  across  the  table  to  Martha. 

But  the  visitor  saw,  that  in  spite  of  Harry's  quick  decision, 
he  looked  at  his  sister  almost  as  if  he  wished  her  opinion  to 
be  different.  Agnes  too  changed  her  position,  and  came  to 
Martha's  side.     The  letter  was  very  short. 


HARRY    MUIR.  101 

"  Sir  : — My  son  has  mformed  me  of  the  circumstances  under 
which  you  have  left  the  office.  I  regret  the  loss  for  your  sake, 
as  well  as  my  own,  but  I  cannot  feel  myself  justified  in  doing 
what  I  hear  my  son  threatened  to  do  ;  consequently,  if  you 
will  call  at  the  office  in  the  course  of  to-morrow,  Mr.  Gilchrist 
has  instructions  to  pay  you  the  full  amount  of  your  quarter's 
salary,  due  on  the  1st  proximo. 

"I  am,  Sir, 
"  Your  obedient  Servant, 

"  George  Buchanan." 

'•  I  cannot  take  it — I  do  not  see  how  I  can  take  it,"  said 
Harry,  irresolutely,  as  he  sought  Martha's  eye. 

'•  It's  nonsense,  that,"  said  Mr.  Gilchrist,  taking  out  a 
large  silver  snuflF-box  and  tapping  slowly  on  its  lid,  with  his 
great  forefinger,  "you  must  look  at  the  thing  coolly,  Harry, 
my  man.  It's  no  fault  of  yours  that  you  lost  the  money  ;  no 
sensible  person. would  blame  you  for  that — a  thing  which  has 
happened  to  many  a  one  before.  I  mind  very  well  being  once 
robbed  myself.  I  was  a  lad  then,  about  your  years,  and  the 
sum  was  thirty  pounds  ;  but  by  good  fortune  twenty  of  it  was 
in  an  English  note,  and  not  being  very  sure  whether  it  was 
canny  or  not,  I  had  taken  its  number — so  oflF  I  set  to  all  the 
banks  and  stopped  it.  It  was  a  July  day.  and  I  was  new 
married,  and  had  no  superabundance  of  notes,  let  alone  twenty- 
pounders — such  a  race  I  had,"  said  Mr.  Gilchrist  with  a  smile, 
raising  his  red  and  brown  handkerchief  to  his  brow  in  sympa- 
thetic recollection,  "  I  believe  I  was  a  stone  lighter  that  night. 
I  succeeded,  and  got  back  my  English  note  very  soon  ;  but 
Mr.  Buchanan  would  not  hear  of  deducting  the  other  ten  from 
my  salary  ;  and  he's  better  able  to  stand  the  loss  of  a  few 
pounds  now  than  he  was  then.     Think  better  of  it,  Harry." 

'•1  think  Mr.  Gilchrist  is  right,"  said  Martha,  "no  one 
could  possibly  blame  you  for  such  a  misfortune,  Harry — and 
Mr.  Buchanan  is  very  good — you  have  no  right  to  reject  his 
kindness ;  it  is  as  ungenerous  to  turn  away  from  a  favour 
frankly  oflFered,  as  it  is  to  withhold  more  than  is  meet  " 

••  It  is  very  well  said,  Miss  Muir,"  said  Mr.  Gilchrist,  con- 
templating the  long  inscription  upon  the  heavy  chased  lid  of 
his  suufif  b<»x,  with  quiet  satisfaction.  "  I  really  think  it  would 
be  ail  unkindly  thing  to  throw  back  this  which  was  meant  for 
a  kindness  into  the  hands  that  offer  it.  He  is  not  an  ill  man, 
George  Buchanan  :  '  for  one  ye'll  get  better,  there's  waur  ye'll 


102  HARRY    MUIR. 

get  ten/  as  the  song  says ;  and  besides,  Harry,  I  was  young 
once  myself,  and  so  was  my  wife.  I  mind  when  our  James 
was  in  his  cradle  like  that  youngster  there,  we  had  just  little 
enough  to  come  and  go  on ;  and  for  any  pride  of  your  own, 
you  must  see  and  not  scrimp  your  wife.  Touts  man,  you  are 
not  going  to  take  ill  what  I  say.  Do  you  think,  if  I  lost  a 
quarter's  salary  just  now,  it  would  not  scrimp  my  wife  ?  and 
I  think  no  shame  of  it." 

"  Neither  do  I  think  shame — certainly  not,"  said  Harry, 
"we  have  only  what  we  work  for.  But  I  have  actually  lost 
Mr.  Buchanan's  money — I  don't  see." 

"  Harry,"  interrupted  Mr.  Grilchrist,  "  never  mind  telling 
me  what  you  don't  see — come  down  to  the  ofl&ce  to-morrow, 
and  hear  what  Mr.  Buchanan  says — he  has  older  eyes  than 
you,  and  knows  the  world  better,  and  there's  no  saying  what 
may  come  of  it ;  for  you  see,  Mrs.  Muir,"  continued  the  Cash- 
ier, casting  down  his  kindly  eyes  again  upon  the  grandiloquent 
inscription  which  testified  that  his  snuff-box  had  been  presented 
to  him  by  young  men  trained  in  the  oflfice  under  his  auspices, 
as  a  token  of  esteem  and  respect,  it  is  wonderful  what  a  kind- 
ness everybody  has  for  this  lad.  I  myself  have  been  missing 
his  laugh  this  whole  day,  and  scarcely  knowing  what  ailed  me 
— so  may  be  something  better  may  turn  up  if  he  comes  down 
to-morrow." 

"  And  Martha  thinks  you  should  go — and  mind  all  that  we 
have  to  do,  Harry,"  whispered  Agnes. 

A  glow  of  pleasure  was  on  Harry's  face — he  liked  to  be 
praised,  and  felt  in  it  an  innocent  kindly  satisfaction — but 
still  he  hesitated.  To  go  back  again  among  those  who  knew 
that  he  had  been  dismissed  and  disgraced — to  humiliate  him- 
self so  far  as  again  to  recognise  Dick  Buchanan  as  his  superi- 
or— to  present  himself  humbly  before  Dick  Buchanan's  father, 
and  propitiate  his  favour.  It  was  very  unpalatable  to  Harry, 
who  after  his  own  fashion  had  no  lack  of  pride. 

"  I  will  see  about  it.  I  will  think  it  over,"  said  Harry, 
doubtfully. 

"  I  think  I  must  send  our  Tom  to  you  in  his  red  gown," 
said  Mr.  Grilchrist ;  "  where  he  got  it,  I  cannot  say,  but  they 
tell  me  the  lad  is  a  metaphysical  man — if  he  ever  gets  the 
length  to  be  a  preacher,  we  will  have  to  send  him  East,  I'm 
thinking,  for  metaphysics  seldom  flourish  here  away ;  but  now 
my  wife  will  be  redding  me  up  for  being  so  late.  Mind,  Har- 
ry, I  will  expect  to  see  you  at  the  office  to-morrow." 


HARRY    MUIR.  103 

The  good  man  rose  to  go  away.  "  By-the-bye,"  he  added 
as  he  shook  hands  with  Rose — and  Rose  felt  herself  look 
guilty  under  his  smiling  glance,  "  I  saw  a  friend  of  yours 
coming  oflf  the  Ayr  coach  as  I  came  up — the  advocate  lad, 
Mr.  Buchanan's  nephew.  You  are  sure  of  his  good  word, 
Harry,  or  else  I  am  much  mistaken." 

'•Mr.  Charteris! — he  has  come  back  very  soon.  Good 
night,  Mr.  Gilchrist,  I  will  think  about  it,"  said  Harry,  as  he 
went  to  the  door  with  his  sister. 

Mr.  Gilchrist  left  some  excitement  behind  him.  Agnes 
had  risen  into  tremulous  high  spirits.  Rose  was  touched  with 
some  tremor  of  anticipation,  and  Martha,  watchful  and  jealous, 
looked  at  her  sister  now  and  then  with  scrutinising  looks ;  for 
Mr.  Gilchrist's  last  words  had  awakened  Martha's  fears  for 
another  of  her  children  ;  while  in  the  meantime  little  Violet 
had  polished  all  the  cups  and  saucers,  and  was  now  putting 
them  with  much  care  away. 

"  Harry  will  go — do  you  not  think  he  must  go,  Martha  ?  " 
said  Agnes.  '•  Mr.  Gilchrist  says  they  miss  him  in  the  office. 
I  don't  wonder  at  that.      He  will  go  back  again,  Martha  ?  " 

'•  I  think  he  should — I  think  he  will,"  said  Martha,  with 
a  slight  sigh.  "  There  might  have  been  something  better  in  a 
change — one  has  always  fantastic  foolish  hopes  from  a  change 
— but  I  believe  this  is  best." 

Agnes  was  a  little  damped ;  for  she  saw  nothing  but  the 
highest  good  fortune  in  this  unlooked-for  overture  of  Mr.  Bu- 
chanan. 

Harry  lingered  at  the  outer  door  in  a  very  different  mood. 
He,  too,  had  been  indulging  in  some  indefinite  hope  from 
change.  He  could  not  see  that  the  former  evils  lay  in  him- 
self— poor  Harry !  He  thought  if  the  circumstances  were  al- 
tered, that  happier  results  might  follow — and  while  he  was 
not  unwilling  to  return  to  his  former  situation,  and  had  even 
a  certain  pleasure  in  the  thought  that  it  was  open  to  him,  the 
submission  which  it  would  be  necessary  to  make,  galled  him 
beyond  measure.  He  stood  there  at  the  door,  moody  and  un- 
easy ;  not  weighing  his  own  feelings  against  the  well  being  of 
the  family,  certainly,  for  Harry  was  not  given  to  any  such 
process  of  deliberation — but  conscious  that  the  two  were  an- 
tagonistic, and  moodily  letting  his  own  painful  share  in  the 
matter  bulk  largest  in  his  mind. 

Just  then  a  hackney  coach  drew  up  at  a  little  distance 
from  the  door,  and  Cuthbert  Charteris  leaped  out.     He  was  a 


104  HARRY    MUIR. 

good  deal  heated,  as  Harrj  thought,  and  looked  as  if  he  had 
taken  little  time  to  rest,  or  put  his  dress  in  order  since  he 
finished  his  journey — but  he  carried  nothing  except  a  little 
paper  parcel.  He  came  up  at  once  to  Harry  and  shook  hands 
with  him  cordially — they  went  up  stairs  together. 

"  I  have  just  come  from  Ayr,"  said  Cuthbert  with  some 
embarrassment,  as  he  took  his  old  place  at  the  window — ''you 
must  pardon  my  traveller's  costume,  Mrs.  Muir,  for  it  is  not 
half  an  hour  since  I  arrived." 

"  You  have  had  little  time  to  see  the  town,"  said  Harry. 
"  Did  you  find  my  uncle  ?  Has  he  sent  any  message  with 
you,  Mr.  Charteris  ?  " 

"  I  have  a  message,"  said  Cuthbert,  clearing  his  throat, 
and  becoming  flushed,  "  but  before  I  deliver  it,  Mr.  Muir,  you 
must  hear  a  long  preface." 

"Is  my  uncle  ill?"  exclaimed  Martha.  "Has  anything 
happened  ?  " 

"  Nothing  has  happened.  He  is  quite  well,"  said  Cuthbert, 
"  only  I  have  been  making  some  inquiries  about  your  family 
concerns,  for  which  I  need  to  excuse  myself  by  a  long  story." 

Harry  was  still  standing.  He  drew  himself  up  with  great 
hauteur,  and  coldly  said,  "  Indeed." 

Kose  lifted  her  head  for  a  moment  with  timid  anxiety  ; 
the  light  was  beginning  to  fail,  but  Rose  still  sat  in  her  cor- 
ner, holding  the  work  which  at  present  made  little  progress. 
Martha  had  laid  down  hers.  Agnes  had  withdrawn  to  the 
sofa  with  her  baby,  who.  already  asleep,  would  very  soon  be 
disposed  of  in  the  cradle  ;  while  Harry,  with  unusual  stateli- 
ness,  leaned  against  the  table,  looking  towards  Cuthbert. 

"  I  think  I  mentioned  before  I  went  away,"  said  Charteris, 
"  that  my  errand  to  Ayr  was  connected  with  one  of  those  sto- 
ries of  family  pride  and  romance  and  misfortunes,  which  some- 
times lighten  our  legal  labours.  This  story  you  must  let  me 
tell  you,  before  I  can  explain  how  my  motives  for  searching 
out  these,  were  neither  curiosity  nor  impertinence." 

As  Cuthbert  spoke,  he  opened  his  parcel,  placed  the  old 
Bible  on  the  table,  and  handed  to  Harry  a  little  roll  of  pa- 
pers. They  were  formal  extracts  from  the  register  of  the  old 
church  at  Ayr,  attested  by  the  session  clerk,  proving  the  mar- 
riage of  Rose  Allenders  with  John  Calder,  and  of  Violet  Cal- 
der  with  James  Muir,  together  with  the  register  of  Harry's 
own  birth. 

Harry  was  quite  bewildered  ;  he  turned  over  the  papers, 


HARRY    MUIR.  105 

half  curious,  half  angry,  and  tried  to  look  cool  and  haughty  ; 
but  wonder  and  interest  defeated  his  pride,  and  impatiently 
calling  for  the  candle,  which  Violet,  with  much  care,  was 
just  then  bringing  into  the  room,  Harry  threw  himself  into 
the  arm-chair,  and  resting  hid  elbows  on  the  table,  leaned  his 
head  upon  both  his  hands,  and  fixed  his  eyes,  with  a  half  de- 
fiance in  them,  full  upon  Cuthbert. 

The  others  drew  near  the  light  with  interest  and  curiosity 
as  great  as  his  ;  but  though  they  held  their  breath  while  they 
listened,  they  did  not  restrain  their  fingers — the  necessity 
of  work  was  too  great  to  be  conquered  by  a  passing  wonder. 

'•  Not  much  short  of  a  century  since,"  said  Cuthbert,  be- 
coming excited  in  spite  of  himself,  '■  a  family  in  the  neighbour- 
hood of  Stirling  had  their  composure  disturbed  by  what 
seemed  to  them  the  very  foolish  marriage  of  one  of  their 
sons.  There  were  six  sons  in  the  family  ;  this  one  was  the 
fourth,  and  at  that  time  had  very  little  visible  prospect  of 
ever  being  heir.  They  were  but  small  gentry,  and  I  do  not 
very  well  know  why  they  were  so  jealous  of  their  gentility ; 
but  however  that  might  be,  this  marriage  was  followed  by 
effects  as  tragic  as  if  the  offender  had  been  a  prince's  son  in- 
stead of  a  country  laird. 

'•  His  father  disinherited  and  disowned  him  ;  he  was  cut 
off  from  all  intercourse  with  his  family ;  but  in  his  own  affairs 
he  seems  to  have  been  prosperous  enough  until  his  wife  died. 
That  event  closed  the  brighter  side  of  life  for  this  melancholy 
man.  He  had  two  daughters,  then  children,  and  with  them 
he  left  Stirling." 

A  slight  start  moved  the  somewhat  stiff  figure  of  Martha  ; 
Rose  unconsciously  let  her  work  fall  and  turned  her  head  to- 
wards Cuthbert ;  Harry  remained  in  the  same  position,  fixed- 
ly gazing  at  him  ;  while  Agnes,  rocking  the  cradle  gently  with 
her  foot,  looked  on  a  little  amused,  a  little  interested,  and  not 
a  little  curious,  wondering  what  the  story  could  mean. 

'•  After  this,"  continued  Cuthbert,  "  my  hero,  we  suppose, 
went  to  London  (another  strange  start  as  if  of  one  half  asleep, 
testified  some  recognition,  on  Martha's  part,  of  the  story),  but 
there  I  lose  trace  of  him.  It  is  only  for  a  short  time,  how- 
ever, for  immediately  afterwards  I  find  him  at  Ayr." 

■•  At  Ayr  ?  "  Harry  too,  started  now,  and  again  turned 
over  the  papers,  which  he  still  held  in  his  hand,  as  if  looking 
for  a  clue. 

••  In  the  meantime,"  said  Cuthbert,  "  all  the  other  mem- 
5* 


1Q6  HARRY    MUIR. 

bers  of  the  family  are  dead  ;  there  is  no  one  remaining  of  the 
blood  but  this  man — the  children  of  this  man." 

"  And  his  name  ?  "  said  Martha,  with  a  slight  hoarseness 
in  her  voice, 

"  His  name,"  said  Cuthbert,  drawing  a  long  breath  of  re- 
lief, as  his  story  ended,  "was  John  Allenders." 

There  was  a  momentary  silence.  They  looked  at  each 
other  with  bewildered  faces.  "  What  does  it  mean  ?  "  said 
Harry,  becoming  very  red  and  hot  as  the  papers  fell  from  his 
shaking  fingers  ;  "  I  cannot  see — it  is  so  great  a  surprise — tell 
us  what  it  means." 

"  It  means,"  said  Cuthbert,  quickly,  "  that  you  are  the 
heir  of  John  Allenders  of  Allenders,  and  of  an  estate  which 
has  been  in  the  family  for  centuries,  worth  more  than  four 
hundred  pounds  a  year." 

Harry  looked  round  for  a  moment  almost  unmeaningly — 
he  was  stupefied  ;  but  Agnes  stole,  as  she  always  did  in 
every  emergency,  to  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  laid  her  hand 
softly  on  his  shoulder.  It  seemed  to  awake  him  as  from  a 
dream.  With  one  hand  he  grasped  hers,  with  the  other  he 
snatched  the  work  from  Martha's  fingers  and  tossed  it  to  the 
other  end  of  the  room.     "  Agnes  !  Martha  !  " 

Poor  Harry  !  A  sob  came  between  the  two  names,  and 
his  eyes  were  swimming  in  sudden  tears.  He  did  not  know 
what  to  say  in  the  joyful  shock  of  this  unlooked-for  fortune  ; 
he  could  only  grasp  their  hands  and  repeat  their  names  again. 

Cuthbert  rose  to  withdraw,  feeling  himself  a  restraint  on 
their  joy,  but  Martha  disengaged  herself  from  the  grasp  of 
Harry,  and  would  not  suffer  him  to  move. 

"  No,  no  ;  share  with  us  the  pleasure  you  bring.  You 
have  seen  us  in  trouble,  stay  with  us  now." 

'•  Is  it  true,  Mr.  Charteris,  is  it  true  ?  "  said  Agnes,  while 
Harry,  still  perfectly  tremulous  and  unsteady,  threw  Rose's 
work  after  Martha's,  and  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hands,  lest 
they  should  see  how  near  weeping  he  was — "  Tell  us  if  it  is 
true." 

Harry  started  to  his  feet.  '*'  True  !  do  you  think  he  would 
tell  us  anything  that  was  not  true  ?  Mr.  Charteris,  if  they 
were  not  all  better  than  me,  I  would  think  it  was  a  delusion, 
that  neither  such  an  inheritance  nor  such  a  friend  could  come 
to  my  lot.  But  it's  for  them — it's  for  them  !  and  a  new  be- 
ginning, a  new  life.  Martha,  we  shall  not  be  worsted  this 
time — it  is  God  has  sent  us  this  other  battle-field." 


HARRY    MUIR.  "  lOT 

And  Harry,  with  irrestrainable  emotion,  lifted  up  his  voice 
and  wept.  His  little  wife  clung  to  his  shoulder,  his  stern 
sister  bent  over  him  with  such  an  unspeakable  tenderness  and 
yearning  hope  in  her  face,  that  it  became  glorified  with  sud- 
den beauty,  and  Cuthbert  remembered  uncle  Sandy's  thanks- 
giving, and  himself  could  have  wept  in  sympathy  for  the 
solemn  trembling  of  this  joy  ;  for  not  the  sudden  wealth  and 
ease,  but  the  prospect  of  a  new  life  it  was  which  called  forth 
those  tears, 

'•  And  what  did  my  uncle  say,  Mr.  Charteris  ?"  said  Rose, 
when  the  tumult  had  in  some  degree  subsided.  No  one  but 
Rose  remembered  that  Cuthbert  had  spoken  of  a  message 
from  uncle  Sandy. 

"  He  bade  me  repeat  to  you  a  homely  proverb,"  said  Cuth- 
bert, who  was  quite  as  unsteady  as  the  rest,  and  had  been  a 
good  deal  at  a  loss  how  to  get  rid  of  some  strange  drops  which 
moistened  his  eyelashes.  ''  It  takes  a  strong  hand  to  hold  a 
full  cup  steady  ;  that  is  the  philosophy  I  brought  from  your 
uncle." 

"  No  fear,"  said  Harry,  looking  up  once  more  with  the 
bright  clear  loveable  face,  which  no  one  could  frown  upon. 
'•No  fear,  what  could  I  do  with  my  arms  bound?  What 
could  I  do  in  yon  office  ?  but  now.  Martha,  now  !  " 

And  Martha  once  more  believed  and  hoped,  ascending  out 
of  the  depths  of  her  dreary  quietness  into  a  very  heaven. 
Few  have  ever  felt,  and  few  could  understand  this  glorious 
revulsion.  With  an  impatient  bound  she  sprang  out  of  the 
abyss,  and  scorned  it  with  her  buoyant  foot.  It  might  not 
last,  perhaps  it  could  not  last,  but  one  hour  of  such  exulting 
certain  hope,  was  almost  worth  a  lifetime's  trial. 

'•  And  I  will  get  a  little  room  all  to  myself,  and  Katie 
Calder  will  come  and  sleep  with  me,"  said  Violet. 

They  all  laughed  unsteadily.  It  brought  them  down  to 
an  easier  level. 

"  I  think,  Mr.  Muir,  you  should  come  at  once  with  me  to 
Edinburgh,"  said  Cuthbert,  •' and  see  your  lawyer,  who  has 
been  hunting  for  you  for  some  time,  and  get  the  proof  and 
your  claim  established.  I  begin  to  think  it  was  very  fortu- 
nate he  broke  his  leg,  Miss  Muir,  for  otherwise  I  might  never 
have  seen  you." 

•'  And  what  made  you  think  of  us  ?  how  did  you  guess  ?  " 
said  Harry. 

"  Rose  and  Violet,"  said  Cuthbert,  with  a  little  shyness. 
"  It  was  a  happy  chance  which  gave  these  names." 


108  HARRY    MUIR. 

Rose  drew  back  a  little.  There  was  something  unusual, 
it  seemed,  in  Cuthbert's  pronunciation  of  her  pretty  name, 
for  it  made  her  blush  ;  and  by  a  strange  sympathy  Mr.  Char- 
teris  blushed  too. 

'•  When  shall  we  start  ?  for  I  suppose  you  will  go  with  me 
to  Edinburgh,"  continued  Charteris. 

Harry  hesitated  a  moment.  "  I  must  go  down  to  the 
office  to-morrow,"  he  said,  with  his  joyous  face  unclouded. 
"  Your  cousin  Dick  and  I  had  something  which  I  thought  a 
quarrel.  It  was  nothing  but  a  few  angry  words  after  all.  I 
will  go  down  to-morrow." 

Harry  had  entirely  forgotten  how  angry  he  was — entirely 
forgotten  the  insulting  things  Dick  Buchanan  said,  and  what 
a  humiliation  he  had  felt  it  would  be,  to  enter  that  office 
again.  Poor  Harry  was  humble  now.  He  had  such  a  happy 
ease  of  forgetting,  that  he  did  not  feel  it  necessary  to  forgive. 
Bright,  sanguine,  overflowing  with  generous  emotions,  Harry 
in  his  new  wealth  and  happiness  that  night  could  not  remem- 
ber that  there  was  any  one  in  the  world  other  than  a  friend. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 

Methinks,  Sir, 
A  mother's  heart's  transparent — 'tis  so  easy 
To  find  tho  way  into  \ 

"  Well,  Cuthbert,  my  man,  are  you  back  from  your  gowk's 
errand  ?  The  month  is  far  on  now  ;  it  has  taken  you  long," 
said  Mrs.  Charteris. 

"  I  have  first  to  present  my  friend  to  you.  mother,"  said 
the  advocate  ;  "  and  as  he  will  be  Mr.  Harry  Muir  only  a  day 
or  two  longer,  we  must  make  the  most  of  him  while  he  bears 
his  old  name." 

"  So  you  were  right  after  all  ?  "  said  the  old  lady,  lifting 
up  her  hands.  "  Dear  me,  Cuthbert,  to  think  of  that !  You 
see,  Mr.  Muir,  T  could  not  believe  his  story,  and  prophesied 
that  he  was  sure  to  fail — though  I  am  very  glad  I  was  wrong. 
You  are  welcome  to  Edinburgh,  and  I  wish  you  joy  of  your 
inheritance." 

With  a  natural  diffidence,  which  flushed  his  cheek,  and 


HARRY    MUIR.  109 

slightly  restrained  his  speech,  Harry  Muir  made  his  acknow- 
ledgments. His  dress  had  been  most  carefully  overlooked 
before  he  left  Glasgow  that  morning,  and  his  eye  was  shining 
with  animation  and  high  hope. 

Mrs.  Charteris  felt  '■  her  heart  warm  "  to  the  stranger,  as 
he  took  the  great  easy-chair  in  the  corner,  and  bent  forward 
towards  Cuthbert  as  to  his  guide  and  counsellor.  The  atti- 
tude and  expression  charmed  Cuthbert's  mother.  She  felt 
that  her  son  had  done  much  for  this  young  man — that  he 
would  do  more — and  Harry  Muir  became  dear  to  her  good 
heart,  because  he  made  her  son  dearer,  and  still  more  worthy 
of  love. 

"  We  must  be  off  again  instantly,  mother,"  said  Cuthbert, 
"  to  meet  Davie  Lindsay  at  my  office.  Ah,  Davie  is  a  slow 
man  ;  he  has  not  an  eye  for  a  mystery  like  some  other  people  ; 
but  I  suppose  I  must  not  boast.  To-day  we  shall  do  a  little 
business  ;  to-morrow  we  propose  a  trip  up  the  Firth  by  the 
Stirling  steamer,  and  a  glance  at  AUenders.  Muir,  it  will 
take  lots  of  money  to  put  that  house  in  decent  order,  you  may 
be  sure." 

Harry  laughed  ;  twenty  pounds  would  have  been  lots  of 
money  to  Harry  two  days  ago.  It  struck  him  as  being 
slightly  ludicrous,  and  certainly  quite  amusing,  all  this  grand- 
eur of  expectation.  That  he  should  have  a  house  to  repair, 
and  lots  of  money  to  repair  it — he,  Harry  Muir  ! 

^  It  is  a  fine  country,  is  it  not  %  "  he  asked,  in  some  haste, 
to  cover  his  nervous  joy.  "  I  have  never  seen  those  Links  of 
Firth,  and  their  very  name  raises  one's  expectation.  Did  you 
not  say  this  house  of  enchantment  was  near  the  river  ?  " 

"  He  knows  no  more  than  we  do,  Mr.  Muir,"  said  Mrs. 
Charteris.  "  You  will  take  your  bed  here,  of  course  %  No 
doubt  it  is  a  bonnie  country,  but  mind  you  must  look  for 
nothing  like  the  Clyde." 

'•  Come  along,  Muir — I  can't  pretend  to  cope  with  tzvo 
west  country  people,"  said  Cuthbert.  "  Come,  Lindsay  will 
be  waiting  open-mouthed  ;  and  to-morrow  we  must  make  our 
pilgrimage  together,  and  no  one  shall  say  I  am  ignorant  of 
the  enchanted  palace  any  more.      Come,  Muir." 

Next  day  the  little  party  set  out  upon  their  brief  voyage. 
This  freedom  of  enjoyment,  without  stealth  or  remorse,  was 
new  to  Harry.  He  breathed  freely.  It  seemed  to  him,  as 
from  a  listener,  he  became  a  partaker  in  the  conversation  of 
Lindsay  and  Charteris,  that   this  was   indeed   a  new  life,  a 


110  HARRY    MUIR. 

bracing  atmosphere,  sucli  as  he  had  not  known  before.  He 
became  quiet  at  first — somewhat  serious  even — and  looking 
up  upon  an  April  sky,  and  down  upon  the  great  stream 
chafing  and  foaming  in  the  little  vessel's  course,  there  came 
upon  him  the  abstraction  of  a  gentle  reverie,  picturing  the 
times  to  come  ! 

The  times  to  come  !  Harry  saw  honour,  wealth,  independ- 
ence, happiness  in  a  bright  crowd  before  him.  He  did  not 
see,  would  not  see — poor,  rash,  incautious  heart ! — that  a  grim 
shadow  lowered  upon  them  all,  the  shadow  of  his  conquering 
sin — nor  that  this  presence  held  the  keys  of  the  joyous  home 
he  dreamed  of,  and  stood  defiant  on  its  threshold,  blighting 
the  flowers  around  the  door.  He  never  trembled  for  himself 
— poor  Harry  !  there  seemed  before  him  nothing  but  security 
and  peace. 

Overhead  the  clouds  flew  to  the  east  like  a  pilgrimage  of 
birds,  sweeping  over  the  breadth  of  heaven  with  a  speed  which 
made  you  dizzy  ;  and  the  mass  of  shadow  threw  a  sable  gleam 
on  the  water,  as  it  dashed  up  its  foaming  mane,  and  shook  it 
in  the  breeze.  There  are  no  clouds  down  the  Firth  where 
Inchkeith  yonder  burns  and  expands  in  the  full  sunshine  ;  but 
here  we  have  only  wayward  glances  of  light,  darting  down 
upon  us  as  if  in  play,  which  vanish  in  a  moment  into  the  pur- 
suing cloud. 

The  little  vessel  leaps  over  the  buoyant  water  with  some- 
times a  mist  of  spray  over  her  bows,  and  the  passengers  march 
in  quick  time  along  the  decks,  as  if  this  swell  and  lengthened 
bound  made  music  wild  and  martial,  stirring  the  heart  to 
quicker  motion. 

Now  comes  a  sudden  gleam,  touching  the  russet  outline 
of  Inchcolm,  as  a  painter  would  have  it  touched ;  and  as  we 
pass,  the  light  glides  on  before  us,  glittering  upon  the  dewy 
slopes  of  Fife,  and  quivering  along  the  waves,  till  it  seems  to 
sink  there,  like  a  golden  arrow  launched  out  of  the  heavens ; 
and  the  clouds  again  fly  over  us,  away  to  the  ungenial  east. 

St,  Margaret's  hope — Ah,  Saxon  Margaret,  Atheling,  Exile, 
Queen,  and  Saint !  was  there  hope  in  this  quiet  bay  when  the 
Scottish  land  stretched  its  brown  arm  of  succour,  and  vowed  its 
rude  heart  to  thy  service  ?  Not  very  far  oflF  is  grey  Dunferm- 
line, forsaken  of  kings — and  you  may  see  a  spire  glitter  on 
the  further  side  of  those  withdrawing  braes,  pointing  where 
th«  palace  crumbles,  and  the  wallflower  and  ivy  flourish,  over 
forlorn   and   solitary  places,  where  queens  had   their  bowers, 


HARRY    MUIR.  Ill 

and  kings  their  council-chamber.  Here,  too,  is  the  royal 
ferry,  with  its  narrow  gateway,  bringing  to  a  point  the  broad 
Firth  on  either  side ;  and  we  rustle  past  the  sentinel-rock, 
which  has  looked  down  often  in  the  old  times  upon  the  pass- 
ing boats  of  queens,  and  dash  with  a  bound  into  the  free 
course  once  more ;  past  little  busy  ports,  and  slumbering 
Tillages,  past  the  great  houses  in  their  nest  of  trees — till  bravo 
old  Demyet  bows  his  stately  head  to  us  among  the  clouds,  and 
the  sun  breaks  out  triumphant  over  the  crowned  rock  of  Stir- 
ling, and  we  glide  into  this  silvery  maze,  radiant  with  flying 
lights  and  shadows — the  links  of  Forth. 

Here,  by  the  side  of  the  water,  a  great  saugh  tree  droops 
its  long  locks,  and  trails  thcni  on  the  stream ;  behind  it  are  a 
heavy  mass  of  alders — by  its  side  a  hawthorn  slowly  whiten- 
ing with  its  fragrant  blossoms — and  above  the  alders  you  can 
see  a  regular  line  of  elm  and  beech,  marshalled  in  fair  suc- 
cession, which  seem  to  form  a  mall  or  avenue  on  the  river's 
side.  Beyond  all  appear  the  roof  and  gables  of  a  hidden 
house.  You  cannot  tell  either  size  or  form  in  the  passing 
glimpse  you  gain  of  it  from  the  river,  but  the  heart  of  Harry 
Muir  beats  high  as  his  eye  falls  on  this  home — a  home  it  must 
be,  for  smoke  curls  from  the  chimneys,  and  a  boat  lies  softly 
rocking  on  the  water  at  the  foot  of  the  saugh  tree. 

"  Neighbours,"  said  Harry  to  himself,  under  his  breath  ; 
"  and  I,  too,  must  have  a  boat  for  Lettie  and  Rose." 

'•  Mr.  Muir,"  said  Lindsay,  bending  forward  with  a  smile, 
"  that  is  AUenders." 

The  heir  started  violently.  With  an  eager  look  he  tried 
to  penetrate  the  network  of  boughs  and  opening  leaves,  and 
failing  that,  followed  with  his  eyes  the  very  smoke  as  it  curled 
away  into  the  clouds.  His  heart  beat  so  loudly  that,  for  a 
moment,  it  made  him  sick. 

'•  AUenders  ! — my  home,  their  home  ! "  murmured  Harry  ; 
and  he  felt  his  breast  swell  as  if  with  a  rising  sob. 

A  drive  of  a  few  miles  from  Stirling  brought  them  to  the 
other  side  of  AUenders.  There  was  less  wood  there,  and  the 
view  was  towards  the  wide  strath  in  which  lies  Bannockburn. 
But  Harry  had  not  time  to  look  at  the  prospect  without — 
there  was  something,  at  the  moment,  greatly  more  interest- 
ing to  him  in  the  grey  gables  and  dilapidated  rooms  within. 

The  house  was  not  large,  but  it  was  tall,  with  windows 
specked  over  it  in  all  corners,  without  an  attempt  at  regu- 
larity ;  and  on  the  eastern  side  was  a  curious  little  turret, 


112  HARRY    MUIR. 

obtruding  itself  abruptly  from  the  wall,  and  throwing  up  a 
spear  point,  now  black  and  tarnished,  over  the  heads  of  the 
high  trees. 

The  door  was  opened  to  them  tardily  by  an  old  man,  who 
did  not  seem  at  all  desirous  that  they  should  penetrate  be- 
yond the  threshold.  This  custodier  of  the  house  of  Allenders 
was  thin  and  shrivelled,  and  had  a  face  dingy  with  age  and 
smoke,  the  small  features  of  which  seemed  to  have  shrunk 
and  crept  together,  under  the  touch  of  time.  A  few  thin, 
white  hairs  strayed  over  his  head,  diverging  from  the  crown  in 
all  directions  with  genuine  independence  ;  and  his  dress  was 
of  homespun  blue,  with  great  ribbed  stockings  and  buckled 
shoes.  Those  poor,  thin,  angular  limbs  seemed  to  bend  any 
way  with  the  stiff  facility  of  wooden  joints ;  and  as  he  dan- 
gled his  lean  arms  by  his  side,  and  gazed  with  light-grey  un- 
meaning eyes  into  their  faces,  it  seemed  as  if  the  chill  winter 
of  years  and  poverty  had  frozen  his  very  soul. 

"  You  must  let  us  in  to  see  the  house,  my  man,"  said 
Lindsay,  briskly.  "  This  is  the  young  laird  I  have  brought 
with  me.  Do  you  think  he's  like  the  old  Allenders,  Dragon  ? 
— you  should  know  them  well." 

'•  Whilk  ane  is  it,  Mr.  Lindsay — the  muckle  ane  or  the 
little  ane  ?  "  asked  the  old  man. 

Now,  Harry  was  by  no  means  little.  He  did  not  at  all 
relish  the  adjective. 

"  This  is  Mr.  Muir — Allenders  of  Allenders,"  said  Lind- 
say, hastily.  "  Come  in  ;  I'll  be  your  guide,  and  Dragon  here 
will  overlook  us,  and  see  we  take  nothing  away." 

They  entered  a  small  square  hall,  dimly  lighted,  at  the 
further  end  of  which  was  a  stone  staircase  of  good  proportions  : 
but  the  walls  were  black  with  the  dust  of  years,  and  the  oak 
banisters  of  the  stairs  were  broken  and  dilapidated.  It  had  a 
dreary,  deserted,  uninhabitable  look  ;  and  Harry,  quickly  im- 
pressed for  good  or  evil,  was  half  inclined  to  think  Mrs.  Rodg- 
ers'  little  parlour  a  brighter  home  than  this  after  all. 

Lindsay  opened  quickly,  and  with  the  air  of  one  thoroughly 
acquainted  with  the  house,  which,  however,  he  had  only  once 
seen  before,  one  of  the  dim  oak  doors  which  opened  into  the 
hall.  Within  was  a  wainscoted  parlour  of  good  dimensions, 
with  one  small  window  in  the  great  blank  of  its  side  wall,  and 
one  squeezed  into  a  corner  beside  the  fire-place.  The  carpet 
was  so  worn  that  pattern  and  colours  were  alike  indiscernible, 
and  dark  curtains  of  faded  purple-crimson  hung  over  the  dingy 


HARRY    MUIR.  113 

windows.  A  loug  diniiig-table,  polished  and  glimmering, 
caught  one  ray  of  the  sunshine  without,  and  carried  it  down 
the  narrow  length  of  the  apartment  to  the  old  fashioned  side- 
board at  the  end  ;  but  save  for  this,  the  place  looked  as  deso- 
late as  could  be  imagined.  Lindsay  turned  round  at  the  door 
with  the  air  of  an  exhibitor,  and  something  of  the  feeling ;  for 
though  himself,  at  the  first  glance,  had  thought  all  this  very 
chill  and  miserable,  he  looked  unconsciously  for  satisfaction 
from  Harry.  Harry  did  not  say  a  word.  Alas  !  the  house 
of  enchantment — the  fairy  palace !  The  reality  was  a  very 
different  thing  from  the  dream. 

Cuthbert  went  quickly  to  the  nearest  window,  and  drew 
away  with  more  energy  than  was  needful  the  jealous  curtain. 

'-'  Another  window  here  to  keep  this  one  company,  and  some 
pictures  on  these  grim  panels,  and  brighter  furniture — you  will 
make  this  room  the  pleasantest  of  winter  parlours,  Muir. 
One  can  have  no  idea  of  what  it  will  be,  from  its  appearance 
just  now." 

'■  Anither  window  !  "  exclaimed  the  old  man,  who  had  fol- 
lowed them.  "  Would  ye  break  the  guid  wall,  ye  wasteful 
prodigal  1  Mr.  Lindsay,  is't  this  ane  ?  "  and  he  pointed  his 
finger  wrathfully  at  Cuthbert. 

'•  No,  no,"  said  Harry  Muir,  with  restored  good-humour; 
'■  we  must  take  your  counsel  since  you  like  the  walls  so  well. 
But  what  is  your*  name  ?  What  did  you  call  him,  Mr.  Lind- 
say ?  " 

'•  They  ca'  me  Dragon,"  said  the  warden  of  Allendcrs, 
vacantly.  ''  That  is,  I'm  meaning  my  name's  Edoni  Comrie  ; 
but  I  never  hear  onybody  have  the  civility  to  ca'  me  aught 
but  Dragon.  Put  in  anither  window  !  What  would  ye  do 
that  for,  I  would  like  to  ken  ?  Do  ye  mean  to  say  that  what 
was  licht  enough  for  the  auld  Allenders,  is  no  litch  enough  for 
the  like  of  you  ?  You  can  wear  spectacles  if  your  vision  is 
failing.  I  do  it  mysel';  but  what  for  wad  ye  break  the  guid 
bounie  wa'  that  might  withstand  the  French  for  a  nonsense 
window?  And  there's  a  bonnie  bush  a'  fu'  o'  white  roses,  in 
their  season,  leaning  on  the  house  close  by  there.  Would  ye 
tramp  down  my  bonnie  lady  rose  for  your  mason  work  ?  Mr. 
Lindsay,  is't  no  again  the  law  ?  " 

'•  But  what  if  we  brought  a  bonnie  Lady  Rose  to  sit  at  the 
new  window,  and  look  out  upon  the  tiowers  !"  said  Cuthbert 
with  a  quick  blush.  '•  When  Allenders  brings  his  family  home, 
he'll  bring  ladies  here  ;  and  flowers,  you  know,  never  thrive 


114  HARRY    MUIR. 

without  light.  You  would  not  show  yourself  a  dragon  to  the 
ladies,  Adam — the  first  time  they  heard  of  you,  too." 

The  old  man  chuckled  a  strange  laugh. 

'•  He  thinks  Fm  heeding  about  ladies — me !  and  you'll 
nane  of  you  be  learned,  I  reckon  ;  for  if  ye  were,  there's  a  routh 
o'  grand  books  ben  the  house — I  whiles  read  in  them  mysel, 
and  they  are  a'  guid  reading  and  profitable.  When  I  come 
on  an  ill  ane,  I  kindle  my  fire  wi't.  I  laid  my  hand  on  ane 
yestreen,  that's  nae  better  than  it  should  be,  in  my  judgment ; 
but  it  was  uncommon  diverting,  and  I  just  laid  it  by  again,  for 
my  ain  carnal  pleasure — for  I'm  no  abune  the  like  o'  that, 
though  I'm  auld.  Come  away,  Allenders — if  you  are  AUen- 
ders ;  I'll  let  3'ou  see  the  book,  and  like  a  good  laddie,  ye'U 
take  nae  heed  of  yon  birkie  and  his  windows." 

The  young  men  followed  their  conductor  in  high  good-hu- 
mour. He  had  quite  neutralized  the  melancholy  appearance 
of  the  house. 

Opposite  the  dining-parlour  was  a  much  smaller  apartment, 
heavy  and  dark  with  books.  Into  the  sombre  twilight  of  this 
room  no  stray  sunbeam  wandered.  High  trees  closed  it  round 
without,  and  great  bookcases,  dusty  and  crowded,  oppressed 
the  wall  within.  A  single  old  print  of  some  obscure  Stirling- 
shire divine,  long  since  forgotten,  hung  over  the  mantel-piece, 
and  a  much-worn  leathern  chair  stood  before  a  little  writing- 
table  in  front  of  the  fire-place.  A  window-seat,  cushioned  and 
covered  with  hard  crimson  moreen,  occupied  the  recess  of  the 
window  ;  but  from  this  you  only  looked  out  upon  the  damp 
outline  of  a  neglected  flower-bed,  covered  with  rank  vegetation, 
and  upon  the  close  screen  of  trees,  which  bent  round  it  on 
every  side. 

"  Man,  I  dinna  envie  ye  the  land  ! "  exclaimed  the  harm- 
less Dragon  of  Allenders,  "  but  I  div  envie  ye  the  books  ;  and 
being  a  callant,  ye'll  no  ken  how  to  make  a  right  use  of  them. 
Now  isna  this  a  grand  room  ?  I'll  warrant  ye  never  were  in 
a  muckle  house  like  this  afore  ?  " 

"  It  is  light  we  want — nothing  but  light.  It  is  the 
gloom  which  makes  these  rooms  look  so  dreary,"  said  Charte- 
ris,  sympathetically,  beholding  the  chill  which  again  fell  over 
Harry. 

Harry  went  to  the  window,  and  looked  out.  Why  they 
would  be  buried  here — and  the  good  fortune  was  a  piece  of 
penance  after  all. 

"  You  should  give  me  another  five  hundred  a-year  for  con- 


HARRY    MUIR.  115 

senting  to  live  in  this  place,  Mr.  Lindsay."  he  said  in  almost 
an  irritated  tone. 

Poor  Harry  had  a  weakness  of  thinking  that  disagreeable 
things  were  somebody's  fault.  He  was  quite  impatient  with 
Lindsay  and  Charteris.      He  felt  as  if  they  had  deluded  him. 

'•  Dr.  AUenders  in  Stirling  would  not  think  so,"  said  Lind- 
say, in  his  turn  a  little  offended.  "  I  dare  say  you  might  find 
a  Jacob  among  them  eager  enough  to  bargain  for  a  birth- 
right " 

"  See,  my  man,  here's  the  book,"  said  the  old  servant,  shuf- 
fling up  to  Harry.  "  Ye  needna  say  onything  to  the  minister 
about  it,  if  ye  should  happen  to  fall  in  with  him ;  for,  may- 
be, he  mightna  think  it  very  richt  for  a  man  of  my  years  ;  and 
I'll  put  it  ben  the  house  on  the  hob  to  kindle  the  fire  when  I'm 
done  reading  it ;  but  it's  awfu'  entertaining.  See,  look  at  it ; 
but  I  canna  ca'  ye  AUenders — AUenders  was  an  auld  man, 
and  you're  only  a  laddie.  What  do  they  ca'  ye  by  your  chris- 
tened name  ?  " 

*  "  My  name  is  Harry  Muir,"  was  the  instant  reply ;  for 
Harry  had  unconsciously  a  feeling  of  disgust  now  at  the  very 
sound  of  AUenders. 

"  Hairy  !  What  garred  them  ca'  ye  Hairy  ?  it's  no  a  canny 
name  for  a  laird  of  AUenders ;  and  there's  never  ane  been 
called  by  it  since  the  time  the  lady  was  lost ;  but  I  hope  ye'U 
come  to  nae  skaith,  for  you're  no  an  ill  lad,  judging  by  your 
looks.  And  ye  have  leddies  coming,  have  ye  ?  What  right 
has  the  like  of  you  to  leddies  ? 

"  My  sister  and  my  wife,  Adam,"  said  Harry,  with  a 
smile. 

"  His  wife  !  hear  till  him  !  Will  ye  tell  me  that  the  like 
of  this  bit  callant's  married  ?  Sirs,  I  never  was  married 
mysel." 

The  poor  old  feeble  Dragon  looked  round  as  he  spoke  with 
the  air  of  a  hero,  and  lifting  up  his  shrivelled  hands,  exhibited 
himself  complacently.  But  as  he  did  this,  his  book  fell,  and 
stooping  to  pick  it  up,  he  presented  it  to  Harry,  with  an  un- 
meaning smile. 

Poor  Dragon !  it  was  a  very  rare  and  fine  old  edition 
of  Shakspeare,  which  his  rough  handling  had  by  no  means  im- 
proved. Harry  was  not  suf&ciently  learned  to  know  that  it 
was  curious  and  valuable  ;  but  he  saw  its  great  age  and  an- 
tique appearance,  and  thought  it  might  be  better  employed 
than  kindling  Adam's  fire. 


116  HARRY    MUIR. 

"When  you  are  done  with  it,  keep  it  for  me,  Dragon,"  said 
Harry  ;  "  I  should  like  to  look  at  it  myself." 

The  old  man  began  to  shake  his  head,  slowly  at  first,  but 
with  a  gradually  increasing  rapidity  of  motion. 

"  I'm  far  from  clear  that  it's  right  to  give  the  like  o'  this 
to  young  folk ;  it's  only  those  who  by  reason  of  use  have  their 
senses  exercised  to  discern  both  good  and  evil,  the  Apostle 
says ;  and  you  are  but  a  babe  to  be  fed  on  the  sincere  milk. 
How  mony  sisters  have  ye.  Mr.  Hairy  ?  " 

'•  Three,  Dragon." 

'•  Three  sisters  and  ae  wife  !  four  women  intill  a  house  at 
ance  !  Come  your  ways  up  the  muckle  stair,"  said  the  old 
man,  hastily,  *'  and  see  the  bonnie  rooms  we've  gotten  to  lodge 
them  a'  in ;  and  plenty  of  light  and  plenty  of  windows,  for  a' 
yon  birkie  says." 

The  young  men  followed  in  silence. 

On  the  second  story  there  was  a  multitude  of  small  rooms. 
One  of  them,  over  the  library,  which  they  entered  first,  dis- 
closed to  Harry's  half-reluctant  eyes  the  prettiest  of  little 
silvery  burns,  sparkling  away  into  the  river,  under  the  shelter 
of  those  overgrown  trees  which  made  the  under  rooms  so  me- 
lancholy. 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  Lindsa,y,  triumphantly.  "  How  you 
may  feel  on  the  matter,  I  can't  tell,  Mr.  Muir,  but  this  seems 
very  fine  to  me ;  and  the  windows  behind  look  out  on  the 
Forth." 

Harry  was  half-ashamed  of  his  ill-humour,  but  for  the  mo- 
ment he  could  not  conquer  it. 

"  We'll  give  this  room  to  the  bonniest  ane,"  said  the 
Dragon,  with  his  feeble  smile.  "  Whilk  ane's  that.  Mr. 'Hairy  ? 
and  you'll  no  be  for  ony  mair  windows  for  your  Lady  Rose," 
added  the  old  man.  turning  sharply  round  on  Cuthbert. 

Cuthbert  had  been  investigating  the  appartment  behind. 

"  The  very  brightest  of  drawing-rooms,"  said  the  advocate, 
with  a  warmth  which  made  Harry  still  more  ashamed  of  him- 
self. '•  You  have  nothing  to  do  but  take  down  this  partition, 
and  throw  the  two  into  one  room." 

The  poor  old  guardian  of  these  dim  walls  clenched  his 
hand,  and' shook  it  with  feeble  vehemence  in  Cuthbert's  face: 

"  Would  ye  put  such  radical  notions  into  the  innocent 
lad's  head  ?     Would  ye  daur  ?  " 


HARRY    MUIR.  11*7 


CHAPTER   XYIII. 

Lord,  what  a  nothing  is  this  little  span 

We  call  a  man ! 
How  slight  and  short  are  his  resolves  at  longest, 

How  weak  at  strongest ! 

QUARLES. 

CuTHBERT  Charteris  returned  to  Edinburgh  that  night,  but 
not  until  he  had  first  made  a  rude  outline — he  was  no  artist, 
but  he  could  use  his  pencil  enough  for  this — of  Allenders, 
with  its  eccentric  turret  and  shady  mall,  and  the  boat — a  very 
crazy,  incompetent  boat  as  it  turned  out — lying  under  the 
saugh  tree  upon  the  quiet  water.  He  showed  it  to  Harry,  as 
they  eagerly  consulted  about  the  necessary  improvements,  and 
Harry  thought  it  quite  a  remarkable  production  ;  but  Cuth- 
bert  greatly  doubted  as  he  enclosed  it  to  Martha  Muir.  The 
deed  almost  lost  its  original  intention  of  simple  kindness,  as 
he  pondered  over  it,  and  feared  that  they  might  think  his 
drawing  a  very  poor  affair  ;  but  it  was  sent  at  last. 

Harry  remained  with  Lindsay  in  Stirling.  It  was  neces- 
sary to  see  the  family  of  Allenders  residing  there,  who,  fail- 
ing Harry  and  his  household,  were  next  heirs  ;  and  some  legal 
forms  had  also  to  be  gone  through.  Harry  had  recovered  his 
usual  spirits  :  he  was  excited  with  his  new  position,  with  his 
proposed  improvements,  and  even  with  his  inn  lodgings  ;  and 
while  Lindsay  laboured  through  some  necessary  processes  for 
his  enfeoffment,  Harry  strayed  out  to  see  the  town.  He  saw 
the  town,  it  was  verj'  true.  He  climbed  to  the  bastions  of 
the  lofty  castle,  and  looked  round  him  east  and  west.  To  the 
blue  Highland  hills  in  the  distance — to  Demayet  and  his 
brother  Ochils,  glooming  in  brown  shadows  over  the  country 
at  his  feet — to  the  silvery  maze  of  the  Forth,  wantoning  in 
and  out  between  those  verdant  banks  as  if  he  were  fain  of  a 
pretext  to  linger  at  every  corner,  because  he  loved  the  way  so 
well — and  to  the  broad  strath  of  Bannockburn,  stealing  away 
into  those  great  lines  of  cloud,  which  seemed  to  carry  its 
gently  sloping  plain  into  the  distant  sky.  Harry  looked  upon 
them  all,  and  mused  and  lingered,  thinking  pleasant  thoughts. 
Then  he  saw  the  lights  begin  to  gleam,  one  after  another,  in 
the  town  below,  and  he  sauntered  down  to  walk  through  the 


118  HARRY    MUIR. 

streets  with  their  pleasant,  quiet,  leisurely  stir,  and  then  to 
return  to  his  hotel. 

But  it  was  very  late  when  Harry  returned  to  his  hotel — 
and  he  was  "indisposed,"  and  would  not  see  the  wondering 
Lindsay,  who  only  left  his  papers  for  the  supper  he  had 
ordered,  when  he  heard  that  Mr.  Muir  had  already  gone  to 
his  room,  and  was  "  indisposed."  Lindsay  was  puzzled  and 
offended.  He  could  not  make  out  what  this  sudden  indispo- 
sition could  mean. 

Poor  Harry  !  next  morning  he  rose  late,  with  an  aching 
head  and  a  pained  heart.  He  forgot  at  first  when  he  woke 
how  he  had  concluded  the  last  evening  ;  but  as  the  remem- 
brance dawned  upon  him,  he  wrung  his  hands  and  groaned 
aloud.  What  could  he  do  ?  how  could  he  defend  himself 
against  this  overpowering  weakness  ?  He  threw  himself 
upon  his  face,  and  prayed  in  an  agony  of  self-reproach  and 
shame,  for  strength,  for  deliverance.  Alas  !  this  great  inher- 
itance, this  fair  new  life — had  he  put  the  stain  of  his  infir- 
mity upon  its  promise  already. 

Lindsay  had  breakfasted  some  time  before  Harry  made  his 
appearance  in  their  sitting-room  ;  and  now  sat  at  a  window, 
reading  a  newspaper,  and  looking  very  grave  and  stately.  A 
ceremonious  salutation  passed  between  them;  and  Harry, 
sick,  despondent,  and  miserable,  sat  down  at  the  table.  As 
he  loitered  over  his  coffee,  and  pushed  his  plate  away  from 
him  with  loathing,  there  was  perfect  silence  in  the  room,  ex- 
cept for  the  rustling  of  Lindsay's  paper,  and  his  own  restless 
motions. 

Poor  Harry  was  utterly  cast  down,  but  his  humiliation 
struggled  with  a  fierce  irritability ;  and  Lindsay  never  moved 
his  paper,  but  his  companion  felt  the  strongest  impulse  to 
snatch  it  from  his  hand,  and  trample  on  it,  as  if  the  indiffer- 
ence which  could  content  itself  with  a  newspaper,  while  he 
was  suffering  thus,  was  a  positive  injury  to  him. 

When  he  had  finished  breakfast,  he  remained  still  leaning 
his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  idly  brooding  over  the  disordered 
table.  He  did  not  feel  any  inclination  to  go  out,  he  had  in- 
deed nothing  present  before  him,  but  a  diseased  image  of  him- 
self overspread  with  blank  despondency,  and  clouded  with 
rising  ill-humour.  He  had  never  felt  this  so  much  before ; 
for  always  before  he  had  to  justify  himself,  or  to  melt  in  sym- 
pathy with  those  tears  of  yearning  love  and  pity  which  had 
been  wept  over  him   so  often.     He  scarcely  had  known   till 


HARRY    MUIR.  119 

now  how  bitterly  and  harshly  the  soul  can  condemn  itself, 
alone. 

"  When  you  are  at  leisure,  Mr.  Muir,"  said  Lindsay, 
coldly,  '"I  shall  be  glad  if  you  will  accompany  me  to  call  on 
Dr.  Allenders.  He  was  here  last  night,  having  received  a 
note  I  wrote  him  from  Edinburgh ;  and  as  he  did  not  see  you 
then—" 

"  Of  course,  I  am  ready — of  course,"  said  Harry,  start- 
ing up  hastily.  "  It  was  impossible  I  could  know  when  Dr. 
Allenders  intended  to  caU.  But  I  am  quite  at  your  com- 
mand, Mr.  Lindsay.  Does  this  man  mean  to  dispute  my 
claim  1  " 

"  This  man  is  a  person  of  the  highest  character,"  said 
Lindsay,  with  his  stiff  gravity.  "  Having  seen  the  documents, 
he  does  not  intend  to  put  any  obstacle  in  your  way,  Mr.  Muir. 
By  the  bye,  I  do  not  know  whether  you  mean  to  assume  the 
name  of  the  family  which  you  succeed.  It  is  not  a  condition 
of  the  will  certainly,  but  it  was  implied.  Shall  I  present  you 
to  the  Doctor  as  Mr.  Allenders?" 

"  No,  no,  not  yet,"  said  the  conscience-stricken  Harry. 
"  Not  yet — not  to-day.     No,  no — let  it  be  a  better  time." 

These  words  were  spoken  incoherently,  but  Lindsay  under- 
stood them,  and  his  heart  was  softened. 

They  went  out,  and  the  conversation  gradually  became 
less  constrained  and  more  familiar ;  but  Harry  painfully  re- 
cognised the  places  which  he  had  passed  during  the  ramble  of 
the  previous  night,  and  vowed  in  his  heart,  as  the  bright  day 
without  restored  in  some  degree  his  failing  spirit  and  courage, 
that  never  more,  never  again,  should  these  inanimate  things 
remind  him  of  temptations  yielded  to,  and  resolutions  broken. 
Poor  Harry  !  a  very  short  time  makes  him  as  confident  as 
ever ;  and  when  they  have  reached  the  doctor's  door,  he  has 
again  begun  to  look  forward  fearlessly  into  the  future,  and  to 
bring  no  self  distrust  or  trembling  out  of  the  past. 

The  doctor's  house  is  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  a  square, 
comfortable  habitation,  with  a  radiant  glimpse  from  its  win- 
dows of  the  mazes  of  the  river  and  the  far-off  hills.  Upon 
the  door  glitters  a  brass  plate,  bearing  the  name  of  John 
Allenders,  M.  D.  ;  and  Dr.  John  Allenders  seems  to  be  in 
comfortable  circumstances,  for  a  spruce  boy  in  buttons  opens 
the  door,  and  they  are  shown  into  a  handsome  library,  which 
a  strong,  peculiar  fragrance,  and  a  suspicious  glass  door  with 
little  red  curtains,  proclaims  to  be  near  the  surgery  ;  but  Dr. 


120  HARRY    MUlU. 

John  has  a  good  collection  of  books,  and  altogether  appears  to 
Harry  an  exceedingly  creditable  relation,  and  one  with  whom 
even  the  heir  of  AUenders  may  be  sufficiently  well  pleased  to 
count  kin. 

It  is  some  time  before  Dr.  John  makes  his  appearance ; 
but  Lindsay,  who  stands  opposite  the  glass  door  catches  a 
glimpse  of  a  dissipated-looking  head,  in  great  shirt  collars, 
stealthily  peeping  through  the  red  curtains  at  Harry,  and 
making  faces  with  an  expression  of  unmitigated  disgust.  But 
he  has  scarcely  time  to  notice  this,  when  a  shadow  falls  upon 
the  door,  and  with  a  solemn  step,  Dr.  AUenders  enters  the 
library. 

He  is  a  common-place  looking  man,  with  great  dark  eyes, 
which  project  almost  their  whole  round  from  under  the  puck- 
ered eyelid.  It  is  curious  to  notice  how  those  eyes  move,  as 
if  they  were  touched  by  strings  or  wires  behind  ;  but  the  rest 
of  his  face  is  very  tolerable,  and  he  looks  what  he  is,  a  tho- 
roughly respectable  person,  driving  his  gig,  and  having  money 
in  the  bank ;  and  understanding  himself  to  be  a  responsible 
man,  owing  society,  in  right  of  his  position  in  it,  ever  so  many 
observances  and  proprieties. 

Close  behind  Dr.  AUenders,  comes  the  dissipated  head  and 
the  shirt  collars,  which  just  now  made  faces  at  Harry  Muir. 
The  owner  of  the  head  stumbles  up  the  two  steps  which  con- 
nect the  lower  level  of  the  surgery  with  that  of  this  more  dig- 
nified apartment,  and  enters  the  room  with  a  swagger.  He  has 
eyes  like  the  doctor's,  and  a  long,  sallow  face,  encircled  by  the 
luxuriant  brushwood  which  repeats  under  his  chin  the  shaggy 
forest  of  hair  which  is  the  crown  and  glory  on  his  head.  He 
wears  a  very  short  grey  coat,  a  coloured  shirt,  and  an  immense 
neck-cloth  ;  and  there  enters  with  him  into  the  room  an  at- 
mosphere of  smoke,  tinted  with  many  harmonizing  odours, 
which  envelopes  his  whole  person  like  a  separate  world. 

Harry  turned  round  with  slightly  nervous  haste  as  the 
doctor  made  his  appearance.  The  doctor  bowed,  and  held  out 
his  hand  with  a  frankness  half  real,  half  assumed  ;  but  Harry's 
hand  fell  as  it  advanced  to  meet  that  of  Dr.  AUenders,  while 
Dr.  AUenders'  son  uttered  a  coarse  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
recognition.  Poor  Harry  !  his  face  became  purple  with  very 
shame  and  anger — for  this  coarse  prodigal  had  been  one  of  his 
boon  companions  on  the  previous  night. 

"  Met  before  ?  "  said  the  doctor,  inquiringly,  as  Harry  sti- 
mulated by  the  rudo  laugh  of  young  AUenders,  and  the  serious 


HARKY    MUIK.  121 

wonder  of  Lindsay,  made  a  strong  effort  to  recover  himself 
"  Seen  my  son  in  some  other  place,  Mr.  Muir  ?  I  am  glad  of 
that,  for  blood  is  thicker  than  water  ;  and  though  we  have  lost 
an  estate  through  your  means,  my  young  friend,  I  hope  we'll 
have  grace  given  us  not  to  be  envious,  but  to  rejoice  in  your 
exaltation  as  if  it  were  our  own  ;  besides  that,  it  would  have 
been  very  inconvenient  to  me — extremely  inconvenient  for  my 
professional  duties — to  have  lived  five  miles  out  of  town ;  and 
then  the  house  is  such  an  old  tumble-down  affair.  So  I  wish 
you  joy,  most  heartily,  Mr.  Muir.  The  income  of  AUenders' 
estate  would  have  been  small  compensation  to  we,  and  Gilbert 
here  has  not  settled  to  the  harness  yet ;  so  we've  no  reason  to 
complain — not  a  shadow.  Pray  sit  down — or  will  you  come 
up-stairs  and  see  my  wife  and  my  daughters  ?  Oh,  we'll  not 
disturb  them ;  and  being  relations,  they  have  heard  of  you, 
Mr.  Muir — I  told  them  myself  yesterday — and  would  like  to 
see  the  new  heir." 

"  I  say  Muir,  my  boy,  I'm  delighted  it's  you,"  said  Mr. 
Gilbert  AUenders,  thrusting  forward  a  great  bony,  tanned  hand, 
ornamented  with  a  large  ring.  "  Pleasant  night,  last  night, 
wasn't  it  ?  Glad  to  see  we've  got  another  good  fellow  among  us. 
Come  along  up-stairs  and  see  the  girls." 

Mr.  Gilbert  AUenders  had  a  rough  voice,  with  the  coarsest 
of  provincial  accents ;  and  to  mend  the  matter,  Mr.  Gilbert 
put  himself  to  quite  extraordinary  pains  to  speak  English, 
emitting  his  r's  with  painful  distinctness,  and  now  and  then 
dropping  a  necessary  h.  It  had  been  a  matter  of  considerable 
study  to  him,  and  he  was  very  complacent  about  his   success. 

Harry  submitted  with  a  bad  grace  to  shake  hands,  and  un- 
consciously drew  nearer  to  Lindsay. 

But  Lindsay,  who  only  smiled  at  the  vulgar  Mr.  Gilbert, 
instinctively  drew  himself  up,  and  turned  his  face  from  Harry. 
Harry  Muir  for  himself  was  nothing  to  the  young  lawyer  ;  but 
Lindsay  felt  personal  offence  mingle  in  the  contempt  with 
which  he  perceived  how  his  client  chose  his  company — leav- 
ing himself  solitary  in  their  inn,  to  go  and  seek  out  a  party 
which  could  admit  this  Gilbert  AUenders.  Henceforth,  Mr. 
Lindsay  might  be  man  of  business  to  the  new  heir — friend 
he  could  never  be. 

"  I  must  be  in  Edinburgh  this  afternoon,"  said  Lindsay 
coldly.  "  Do  you  accompany  me,  Mr.  Muir  ?  for  if  you  do 
not,  I  have  accomplished  all  that  is  necessary  here,  I  fancy, 
and  may  take  my  leave." 


122  HARRY    MUIR. 

Harry  hesitated  for  a  moment,  his  better  feelings  struggling 
with  false  shame  and  pride  ;  but  lifting  his  eyes  suddenly,  he 
encountered  the  derisive  smile  of  Gilbert  AUenders,  and  took 
in  with  one  rapid  glance  all  the  characteristics  of  his  new-found 
kinsman.  These  had  more  effect  on  his  susceptibility  than 
either  reason  or  repentance.  He  did  not  decide  on  return- 
ing in  the  lawyer's  respectable  society,  because  he  feared  for 
his  own  weakness,  if  he  permitted  himself  to  remain  here  alone. 
No,  often  though  Harry's  weakness  had  been  demonstrated 
even  to  his  own  conviction,  it  was  not  this ;  but  what  a  know- 
ledge of  himself  could  not  do,  disgust  with  Gilbert  Allenders 
did.  He  answered  hastily  that  he  too  would  return  at  once, 
and  persuading  Lindsay  to  remain  and  accompany  him  up- stairs 
to  the  drawing-room  where  Mrs.  Allenders  and  her  daughters 
sat  in  state  expecting  their  visit,  they  at  length  left  the  house 
together,  declining  the  proffered  escort  of  Mr.  Gilbert. 

But  Harry  did  not  escape  without  a  galling  punishment 
for  the  previous  night's  folly.  Gilbert  Allenders,  seeing  how 
he  winced  under  it,  plied  him  with  allusion  after  allusion. 
"  Last  night,  you  recollect  ?"  and  with  the  most  malicious  per- 
severance recalled  its  speeches,  its  laughter,  its  jokes  and  its 
noise,  assuming  too  an  ostentation  of  familiarity  and  good-fel- 
lowship which  Harry  could  scarcely  restrain  his  fury  at.  The 
effect  was  good  and  bad  ;  on  the  one  hand,  Harry  vowed  to 
himself  fiercely  that  he  never  would  put  himself  in  the  power 
of  such  a  man  again :  on  the  other,  he  forgot  how  he  himself 
had  wasted  the  fair  summer  night  begun  with  pleasant  thoughts 
and  blessings  ;  how  he  had  desecrated  and  polluted  what  should 
have  been  its  pure  and  healthful  close.  He  forgot  his  re- 
pentance.    He  felt  himself  an  ill-used  man. 

But  he  left  Stirling  that  night  with  the  half-mollified  Lind- 
say.    So  much  at  least  was  gained. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 


Fair  gladsome  waking  thoughts,  and  joyous  dreams  more  fair  I 

Castle  of  Indolence. 

\s  the  parlor  at  Port  Dundas  the  window  is  open,  the  little 
uiuslin  blind  waves  in  the  soft  air,  and  sounds  steal  in  drowsl 
ly  through  the  sunshine  from  without.      At  the  table  sits  Agnes. 


HARRY    MUIR.  .  123 

in  her  best  gown,  writing  a  letter  to  Harry.  Violet,  in  a  cor- 
ner, stands  erect  with  her  hands  behind  her,  defying  Rose,  who 
sits  with  great  dignity^  in  tlie  arm-chair  to  puzzle  her  with  that 
spelling-book.  Little  Harry,  now  beginning  to  walk,  creeps 
about  the  floor  at  his  own  sweet  will  ;  and  indeed  they  are  all 
idling  but  Martha,  who  still  works  at  the  '•  opening,"  though 
you  perceive  she  does  it  slowly,  and  has  not  the  keen  interest 
in  '•  getting  on"  which  she  had  a  week  ago. 

Agnes  writes  rather  laboriously — she  is  no  penwoman  ;  and 
what  she  writes  is  just  about  nothing  at  all — a  domestic  letter, 
full  of  implied  tenderness  and  exuberant  hopes,  through  which 
you  can  scarcely  see  the  sober  and  solemn  solicitude  which  has 
made  Harry's  wife  a  woman  deeper  than  her  nature,  and  elder 
than  her  years.  But  the  heart  of  the  young  wife  is  very  light 
now,  and  she  looks  at  the  sleeve  of  her  best  gown  with  a  smile, 
as  she  pauses  to  arrange  the  next  sentence,  and  beats  upon 
her  hand  with  the  feather  of  her  pen.  Little  Harry  seated 
at  her  feet,  which  he  makes  a  half-way  house  between  two  cor- 
ners, tears  away  with  appetite  at  a  great  orange,  refreshing 
himself,  before,  on  hands  and  knees,  he  starts  upon  another 
circumnavigation. 

Looking  down  upon  him  lovingly  the  young  mother  con- 
cocts her  next  sentence  with  triumphant  success ;  and  you  can 
guess,  without  looking  over  her  shoulder,  what  a  pretty  out- 
line grows  upon  her  paper,  under  that  inspired  pen,  which  can 
write  so  quickly  now.  It  is  not  a  daguerreotype  of  little 
Harry  which  his  mother  will  send  to  his  father ;  but  indeed 
one  cannot  tell  what  height  of  excellence  and  warm  expression 
this  very  daguerreotype  can  attain  to,  when  the  sunshine 
which  makes  the  portraiture  is  not  the  light  of  common  day, 
bat  of  love. 

Nor  are  you  working  either,  little  dark-haired  Violet ! 
Alas,  it  is  no  sensible  educational  purpose  which  has  carried 
you  into  the  corner,  with  one  defiant  foot  planted  firmly  before 
the  other,  and  those  restless  hands  crossed  demurely  behind. 
Not  a  respectable  lesson  gravely  administered  and  received, 
as  lessons  should  be,  but  a  challenge  proudly  given  to  Rose  to 
"  fickle  "  you,  who  are  very  confident  in  this  particular  of  spell- 
ing that  you  cannot  be  "fickled."  A  slight  curve  upon  the 
brow  of  Rose,  as  she  hunts  up  and  down  through  all  those 
pages  for  hard  words,  intimates  that  she  is  a  little  ''  fickled  " 
herself ;  and  Violet  raises  her  head  more  proudly,  and  Rose 
laughs  with  greater  mirth  as  each  successive  word  is  achieved, 


124  HARRY    MUIR. 

thougli  now  and  then  the  elder  trifler  discovers  that  she  is 
idle,  and  wonders  why  it  is,  and  remembers  the  cause  which 
has  made  their  industry  less  urgent,  with  new  smiles  and  joy. 

But  Martha  still  works  at  her  "  opening."  This,  the  last 
which  they  are  ever  to  do,  Harry  says,  is  a  collar  very  elabor- 
ately embroidered,  which  Martha  resolves  shall  be  bestowed 
on  Agnes,  as  one  memorial  of  those  toilsome  days  when  they 
are  past.  The  sterner  lines  in  Martha's  face  have 'relaxed, 
and  her  eyelids  droop  softly  with  a  grateful  pleasant  weariness 
over  her  subdued  eyes.  Sometimes  the  curves  about  her 
mouth  move  with  a  momentary  quiver,  as  though  a  few  tears 
were  about  to  fall ;  but  the  tears  never  fall.  And  sometimes 
she  lays  down  her  work  on  her  knee,  and  droops  her  head  for- 
ward, and  looks  up  under  her  eyelashes  with  a  smile  at  the 
young  mother,  or  at  the  two  household  flowers.  These  are 
long,  loving,  lingering  glances,  not  bright  but  dim  with  the 
unusual  gentleness  of  this  unusual  rest. 

The  sounds  without  do  not  strike  upon  your  ear  harshly, 
as  sounds  do  in  winter,  for  this  April  day  is  warm  and  genial, 
like  a  day  in  June,  and  has  in  it  a  natural  hush  and  calm, 
which  softens  every  distant  voice.  Chief  of  all  passing  voices 
come  gaily  through  the  sunshine  and  the  open  window,  the 
song  of  Maggie  McGillivray.  She  is  sitting  again  on  her 
mother's  step,  with  the  full  sunshine,  which  she  does  not  at  all 
heed,  streaming  upon  her  brown,  wholesome,  comely  face.  Her 
scissors  flash  in  the  sun,  her  yellow  hair  burns ;  but  Maggie 
only  throws  over  her  head  the  finished  end  of  her  web,  and 
clips  and  sings  with  unfailing  cheerfulness.  This  time  it  is 
not  the  '•  Lea  Rig,"  but  "  Kelvin  Grove,"  to  which  the  shears 
march  and  keep  time  ;  but  it  is  impossible  to  tell  what  a  zest 
it  gives  to  idleness,  when  one  can  look  out  upon  industry  so 
sunshiny  and  alert  as  this. 

"  Perfunctory  —  p,  e,  r,  f,  u,  n,  c,  t  —  Eh  !  Rose  yonder's 
Postie,  with  a  letter,"  cried  Violet,  out  of  breath. 

'■  It's  sure  to  be  from  Harry,  he's  always  so  thoughtful," 
said  the  young  wife  ;  "  run  and  get  it,  Violet.  I  wonder  if  he 
has  seen  the  house  yet — I  wonder  if  he  has  settled  when  we're 
all  to  go — I  wonder — but  to  think  of  him  writing  again  to- 
day !  Poor  Harry !  he  would  think  we  would  be  anxious, 
Martha." 

'•  Here's  three ;  everybody  but  me  gets  a  letter,"  cried 
Violet,  entering  with  her  hands  full.  ''  Martha,  Postie  says 
this  should  have  come  yesterday,  but  it  had  no  number;  and 


HARRY    MUIR.  125 

here's  one  from  my  uncle.  May  /open  Uncle  Sandy's  letter, 
Martha  ?  " 

But  Violet's  question  was  not  answered.  Harry's  letter 
was  a  large  one,  a  family  epistle  addressed  to  Martha,  enclosed 
within  the  love-letter  which  Harry's  still  fresh  and  delicate 
affection  sent  to  his  wife.  But  while  Agnes  ran  over  hers 
alone,  a  flush  of  delight  and  expectation  making  her  smile  ra- 
diant, Rose  looking  over  Martha's  shoulder,  and  Violet  stand- 
ing at  her  knee,  possessed  themselves  of  the  contents  of  the 
larger  letter ;  so  that  Agnes,  roused  at  the  end  of  her  own  to 
kindred  eagerness  about  this,  started  up  to  join  them,  as  Rose 
exclaimed :  '•  A  boat  on  the  water,"  and  Violet  cried  "  Eh, 
Agnes,  a  wee  burn,"  in  the  same  breath. 

And  then  Martha  smilingly  commanded  the  little  crowd 
which  pressed  around  her  to  sit  down  quietly,  and  hear  her 
read  ;  and  Violet  added  with  authority  : 

'•  Agnes,  Rose,  you're  to  go  away.  Martha  will  read  it 
out  loud  ;  ".  but,  notwithstanding,  still  obtruded  her  own  small 
head  between  the  letter  of  Harry  and  the  eyes  of  her  elder 
sister. 

And  Martha  did  read  "  out  loud,"  all  the  others  still  con- 
tinuing to  bend  over  her  shoulder,  and  to  utter  suppressed  ex- 
clamations as  their  eyes  ran,  faster  than  Martha's  voice,  over 
the  full  page.  The  mall,  the  boat,  the  burn,  the  partitions  to 
be  thrown  down,  the  windows  to  be  opened,  the  painting  and 
gilding  and  furnishing  which  filled  Harry's  mind  with  occupa- 
tion, produced  the  pleasantest  excitement  in  the  family.  Those 
two  girls,  Agnes  and  Rose — for  the  wife  was  little  more  ma- 
ture than  her  young  sister — paused  at  the  end  of  every  sen- 
tence to  clap  their  hands,  and  exclaim  with  pleasure ;  but 
Violet's  small  head  remained  steady  under  shadow  of  Martha's 
shoulder,  and  she  read  on. 

'•  I  have  the  accumulated  rents  of  two  years — nine  hundred 
pounds — to  begin  with,"  wrote  Harry ;  "  you  may  fancy  how 
much  improvement  we  may  get  out  of  such  a  sum  as  that ;  and 
I  am  resolved  that  the  house  shall  be  a  pleasant  house  to  us 
all,  and  like  what  a  home  should  be,  if  anything  I  can  do,  will 
make  it  so.  We  must  have  a  new  boat,  instead  of  this  old 
crazy  one,  and  will  be  obliged  to  have  a  vehicle  of  some  kind. 
Violet  must  go  to  Stirling  to  school,  so  we'll  need  a  pony  for 
iier  (Violet  laughed  aloud),  and  Agnes  and  Rose  and  you,  my 
dear  Martha,  must  have  some  kind  of  carriage ;  however,  you 
shall  decide  yourselves  about  that.     But  this  thousand  pounds, 


126  HARRY    MUIR. 

you  see,  will  enable  us  to  begin  in  proper  style,  and  that  is  a 
great  matter. 

"  I  have  just  seen  a  family  of  Allenders  in  Stirling,  respec- 
table vulgar  people,  with  a  dissipated  son,  who  took  upon  him 
to  be  more  intimate  with  me  than  I  was  at  all  disposed  for.  I 
am  afraid  I  shall  be  rude  to  this  Gilbert  Allenders,  if  he  con- 
tinues to  press  himself  upon  me ;  however,  when  you  are  all 
yonder,  everything  will  go  well." 

Poor  Harry  !  It  was  a  consolation  to  him  to  condemn 
Gilbert  Allenders ;  it  seemed  to  take  a  weight  from  his  own 
conscience  ;  disgust  for  his  dissipated  kinsman  stood  Harry  in 
stead  as  disgust  for  dissipation  itself,  and  he  took  the  salve  to 
his  heart,  and  was  comforted. 

"  Martha,  will  a  iwnj  carry  two  folk  ?  "  asked  Violet, 
anxiously.  "  Yes,  I  mind — for  ladies  rode  upon  a  pillion 
langsyne." 

"  And  what  two  folk  would  you  have  it  carry,  Lettie  ?  " 
asked  Rose. 

"  Me  and  Katie  Calder.  Martha,  will  you  let  Katie  come  ? 
— for  Auntie  Jean's  ill  to  her ;  my  uncle  told  Harry  that, 
Martha." 

•'  Ask  Agnes,"  said  Martha,  with  a  smile ;  "  I  am  only 
Harry's  sister  and  your  sister,  Lettie ;  but  Agnes  is  lady  of 
Allenders  now  ;  you  must  ask  Agnes." 

The  little  wife  grew  red  and  white,  and  laughed  hysteri- 
cally ;  then  she  sank  down  on  the  floor  at  Martha's  feet,  and 
clasped  her  arms  around  the  elder  sister's  waist,  and  wept 
quietly  with  her  face  hidden.     It  was  too  much  for  them  all. 

"  And  it's  an  enchanted  castle,  and  there's  a  Dragon  in  it," 
cried  Violet  joyously ;  "  but,  Rosie,  Rosie,  there  should  be  a 
knight.  Oh  !  I  ken  who  it  is — I  ken  who  it  is ;  it's  Mr.  Char- 
teris  !  " 

"  Lettie,  what  nonsense ! "  exclaimed  Rose,  who  at  that 
moment  became  extremely  upright  and  proper. 

"  I  ken ;  you're  the  princess,  Rosie,  and  Mr.  Charteris  is 
the  knight ;  and  maybe  there's  fairies  about  the  burn  !  Oh  ! 
I  wish  I  was  there  ! — me  and  little  Katie  Calder  !  " 

Martha  lifted  the  other  letters  from  the  table  ;  they  had 
been  forgotten  in  the  interest  of  this.  One  of  them  was  from 
Uncle  Sandy ;  the  other  was  a  note  from  Cuthbert,  enclosing 
his  sketch — an  extremely  brief  note,  saying  little — yet  Rose 
examined  it  over  her  sister's  shoulder  stealthily,  while  the 
others  looked   at  the   drawing.     There  was  nothing  peculiar 


HARRY    MUIK.  12Y 

about  the  hand  ;  and  Koso  did  not  understand  the  art  of  glean- 
ing traits  of  character  out  of  hair-strokes — yet  her  eyes  went 
over  it  slowly,  tracing  the  form  of  every  letter.  Poor  Cuth- 
bert !  he  thouglit  this  same  Rose  would  be  very  much  inter- 
ested about  his  drawing ;  it  seemed  for  the  moment  that  these 
plain  characters  occupied  her  more. 


CHAPTER  XX. 


A  pair  of  friends— though  I  was  young 
And  Matthew  seventy-three. 

WORDSWOKTII. 


'•  Eh,  wee  Hairy  !  "  cried  Miss  Aggie  Rodger,  "  your  faither's 
a  muckle  man  noo  ;  do  you  ken  that,  my  pet  1  and  you'll  ride 
in  a  coach,  and  get  a  grand  powney  o'  your  ain,  and  eat  gros- 
sets  and  pu'  flowers  a'  the  simmer  through  ;  do  you  hear  thai, 
my  wee  boy  ?  But  ye'll  have  to  gang  away,  Hairy,  and  what'll 
we  a'  do  wanting  ye  ?  " 

••  It's  me  that's  to  get  the  pony,"  said  Violet.  '•  I'm  to 
ride  into  Stirling  to  the  school  every  day,  and  I  want  Martha 
to  buy  a  pillion  for  Katie  Calder,  and  then,  Miss  Aggie,  I  can 
sit  before,  and  Katie  behind,  like  the  lady  in  Lochinvar ;  but 
it's  me  that's  to  get  the  pony." 

"  Preserve  me,  what  a  grand  lady !  "  said  Miss  Aggie, 
throwing  up  little  Harry  in  her  arms  ;  "  but  the  wee  boy's  the 
heir  for  a'  that — are  ye  no,  Hairy  ?  " 

"  But  I  want  to  ken  how  we're  to  get  to  Stirling,"  said 
Violet.  "  I  ken  about  the  Castle  and  the  Ladies'  Rock,  and 
all  the  places  where  the  Douglas  played,  and  where  Lufra 
chased  the  deer,  and  King  James  coming  down  the  High 
Street,  too ;  but  Mr.  John,  will  you  tell  me  how  we're  to  get 
to  Stirling?" 

'■  I  never  was  there  myself,  Lettie,"  said  the  idle  man ; 
"  but  there's  a  map  of  Scotland  in  that  auld  book — see,  down 
yonder  in  the  corner,  behind  '  Hervey's  Meditations' — that's 
it — and  we'll  look  and  see." 

The  book  was  a  dingy  and  tattered  one,  and  beside  it  lay 
a  very  old  copy  of  Young's  "  Night  Thoughts,"  which  Violet 
brought  with  her  in  her  hand. 


128  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  See,  now,  this  is  the  road,"  said  the  poor,  good-natured 
Johnnie,  with  whom  Lettie  was  an  especial  favourite,  as  he 
spread  out  the  worn  map  on  his  knee,  and  taking  a  pin  from 
the  lappel  of  his  coat,  traced  with  it  the  route.  "  But  your 
brother,  you  know,  Lettie,  went  to  Edinburgh  first,  and  then 
sailed  up  here — and  this  is  S tilling." 

"  Eh,  how  the  water  runs  out  and  in  !  "  exclaimed  Violet ; 
"  and  we  have  a  boat  all  to  ourselves.  Mr.  John,  will  you  tell 
me  what  this  book  is — is  it  good  for  reading  ?  "  and  Violet 
contemplated,  with  a  slightly  puzzled  expression,  the  dense 
pages  of  blank  verse  in  which  there  appeared  no  story  to  catch 
her  eye,  or  interest. 

"  Very  good  for  reading,"  answered  the  oracular  Mr. 
John ;  "  jbut  now,  Lettie,  put  the  books  back,  and  run  down  to 
Mrs.  McGrarvie's,  like  a  good  girl,  and  bring  me  a  new  pipe — 
run,  Lettie  ! " 

There  was  a  strange  alliance  between  the  child  and  the 
man.  Lettie,  not  always  very  tolerant  of  messages,  put  down 
the  books  without  a  murmur,  and  obeyed. 

It  was  now  May,  and  the  day  was  hot  and  slumbrous. 
Miss  Jeanie  Rodger  was  at  the  warehouse,  carrying  back  the 
work ;  Miss  Aggie  making  boisterous  fun  with  little  Harry  at 
the  window  ;  while  proud,  pensive,  faded  Miss  Rodger  sat  very 
unpresentable  in  another  room,  repairing  worn  finery,  which 
never  could  have  been  suitable  for  her,  and  was  suitable  for 
no  one  now. 

The  mother,  worn  out  by  two  or  three  successive  encoun- 
ters with  tax-gatherers,  whose  visits  she  bitterly  resented  at 
all  times,  and  among  whom  she  classed  the  collectors  of  those 
innocent  water  and  gas  accounts,  which  lay  upon  the  "bunker" 
in  the  kitchen,  was  sleeping  away  her  wrath  and  fatigue ; 
every  thing  was  still  in  the  house,  except  the  crowing  of  little 
Harry.  And  little  Harry's  mother  and  aunts  were  making  a 
new  frock  for  him  in  the  parlour — a  work  which,  for  very  joy, 
made  slow  progress :  they  had  so  many  things  to  think  and 
talk  about. 

Looking  into  this  pleasant  work-room  to  see  that  all  was 
right,  before  she  obeyed  the  command  of  Mr.  John,  Violet 
went  bounding  down  the  stair,  and  out  into  the  street. 

Mrs.  McGarvie's  Tiger  sat  painfully  on  the  very  narrow 
step  of  the  door,  where  he  could  be  shaded  from  the  sun  ;  sat 
very  upright  and  prim,  poor  fellow,  compelled  by  this  circum- 
scribed space.  Mrs.  McGrarvie's  pretty  Helen,  with  her  beautiful 


HARRY    MUIR.  129 

hair  and  bare  feet,  on  short  time  at  the  mill,  lovingly  clipped 
with  Maggie  McGillivray  across  the  way,  but  was  very  lan- 
guid under  the  full  sunshine,  and  grew  quite  ashamed  of  her- 
self as  she  watched  with  awe  and  admiration  the  vigorous 
shears  of  her  companion ;  while  Mrs.  McGarvie  in  the  easy 
dishabille  of  a  loose  short  gown,  shook  her  loose  clenched 
hand  at  her  daughter  from  the  threshold,  and  called  her  an 
idle  cuttie  at  the  top  of  her  voice. 

It  was  a  drowsy  day,  and  some  one  looking  very  brown 
and  dusty,  came  toiling  down  the  sunny,  unshaded  road. 

"  Eh,  it's  Harry  !  "  cried  Violet  Muir — and  affectionately 
grasping  the  pipe  in  one  hand,  she  ran  up  the  road  to  secure 
Harry  with  the  other. 

"  Who's  to  smoke  the  pipe  ?  Lettie,  you  must  go  no  more 
messages  like  this,  for  you're  a  young  lady  now,"  said  Harry, 
drawing  himself  up.  Is  it  for  that  idle  fellot^,  John  Rodger  ? 
What  a  shame,  Lettie  !  " 

"  He's  my  friend ;  I  like  him  best,"  said  Violet,  decidedly. 

''  He's  a  mean  fellow  !  "  said  Harry.  "  See  that  you  don't 
go  any  where  for  him  again  ! " 

For  Harry  had  just  now  been  a  little  irritated.  Some  one 
had  met  him,  who  did  not  know  his  dignity,  and  who  in  the 
old  days  had  been  the  superior  of  Mr.  Buchanan's  clerk  ;  but 
having  extinguished  his  wrath  by  this  condemnation  of  poor 
John  Rodger,  and  highly  amused  to  notice  the  violent  flush  of 
anger  which  rose  upon  the  face  of  Lettie,  Harry  entered  the 
house  in  great  spirits. 

'•  He's  turning  steady,  that  lad,"  said  Mrs.  McGarvie,  look- 
ing after  him,  with  a  sigh.  '"  I'm  sure  it's  a  great  blessing ; 
and  a'  body  mends  o'  their. ill  courses  but  our  guidman." 

Harry  had  come  by  the  coach ;  the  economic  tardiness  of 
the  canal  was  not  necessary  to  Harry  now  ;  and  except  that  he 
was  sunburnt,  and  hot,  and  dusty,  the  quick,  inquisitive  eye  of 
Rose  decided  in  a  moment  that  there  was  nothing  in  his  ap- 
pearance to-day  to  rouse  Martha's  suspicions. 

•'  Don't  let  Lettie  run  about  so,"  said  Harry,  when  their 
first  greetings  were  over.  "  It  is  great  presumption  of  those 
Rodgers  ;  don't  let  her  go  errands  for  them.  Lettie  is  clever, 
Martha ;  we  must  make  something  of  her.  And  now,  when 
will  you  all  go  home  ?  " 

•'  Is  that  all  that  remains  now,  Harry?  "  exclaimed  Agnes, 
clapping  her  hands.  "  May  we  go  at  once  ?  Is  it  so  near  as 
that?" 


130  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Well,  I  don't  think  you  should,"  said  Harry.  "  Let  me 
get  all  the  alterations  made,  and  the  place  furnished,  and  then 
you  can  come.  But  Charteris  said  he  was  sure  you  would  like 
better  to  be  there  at  once,  and  have  a  hand  in  the  improve- 
ments ;  so  I  promised  him  to  give  you  your  choice." 

"  Oh,  surely !     Let  us  go  now,"  said  Agnes. 

"  Eh,  I  would  like !"  echoed  little  Violet. 

"  But  I  should  not  like,"  said  Harry.  "  I  want  you  to  go 
when  the  place  is  complete  and  worthy  of  you.  If  you  saw  it 
now,  you  would  think  it  a  dingy,  melancholy  desert ;  but  just 
wait  for  a  month  or  so  !  There  is  a  good  deal  of  wood  to  be 
cut  down,  and  they  tell  me  the  estate  may  be  much  improved  ; 
and  to  have  a  thousand  pounds  to  begin  with,  you  know,  is 
a  great  good  fortune.  There  is  a  new  church  building  close 
by — I  think  of  giving  them  a  hundred  pounds,  Martha." 

"  A  hundred  pounds  ! "  exclaimed  Agnes  and  Rose. 

The  eyes  of  both  were  wet.  It  was  so  great  a  gladness  to 
be  able  to  give  such  a  gift,  and  then  to  propose  it  was  so  good 
of  Harry  !     They  were  both  overpowered  with  his  liberality. 

"  A  Syrian  ready  to  perish  was  my  father,"  said  Martha, 
slowly.  '•  Yes,  it  is  very  fit  you  should  bring  the  handful  of 
first-fruits  ;  but  bring  it  justly,  Harry.  Spare  it.  Do  not 
give  it  to  the  church  and  spend  it  too." 

"  Martha  is  thinking  of  our  old  fifteen  pounds  a  quarter," 
said  Harry,  gaily.  "  Martha  forgets  that  you  don't  need  to 
put  off  an  account  to  pay  your  seat-rent  now,  Agnes.  Why, 
only  think  of  a  thousand  pounds — what  a  sum  it  is  !  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  we  could  never  spend  it.     Look  here,  Lettie." 

And  Harry  triumphantly  exhibited  a  hundred-pound  note. 
No  one  present  had  ever  seen  such  a  one  before  ;  and  simple 
Harry,  with  a  touch  of  most  innocent  pride,  had  preferred  this 
one  piece  of  paper  to  the  more  useful  smaller  notes,  simply  to 
let  them  see  it,  and  to  dazzle  their  eyes  with  a  whole  hundred 
pounds  of  their  own. 

"  Eh,  Harry  ! "  exclaimed  Violet,  with  reverential  eyes 
fixed  on  Harry's  new  pocket-book,  "  is't  a'  there?" 

Harry  laughed,  and  closed  the  book  ;  but  they  all  looked 
at  it  a  little  curiously,  and  even  Agnes  felt  a  momentary  doubt 
as  to  whether  a  thousand — ay,  or  even  a  hundred — pounds 
were  very  safe  in  Harry's  keeping. 

"  No,  it's  not  all  here,"  answered  the  heir  ;  "  it's  all  in 
the  bank  but  this.  Now,  Agnes,  am  I  not  to  have  any  tea  7 
And  we  must  consult  about  it  all.     The  improvements  will 


HARRY    MUIR.  131 

cost  some  two  hundred  pounds  ;  then  we'll  say  a  hundred  and 
fifty  to  furnish  the  drawing-room — that's  very  moderate.  Then 
— there  are  already  some  things  in  the  dining-room — say  a 
hundred  for  that,  and  another  hundred  for  the  rest  of  the 
house.     How  much  is  that,  Lettie  1 " 

Lettie  was  counting  it  up  on  her  fingers. 

"  Eh,  Harry,  what  a  heap  of  siller  !" 

"  Five  hundred  and  fifty ;  and  this,"  said  Harry,  compla- 
cently laying  his  finger  on  his  pocket-book,  "  six ;  and  a 
hundred  to  the  kirk,  seven  hundred  and  fifty  ;  and  say  fifty 
pounds  for  a  good  horse  and  Lottie's  pony,  and  somewhere 
near  a  hundred  for  a  carriage,  and  then — whew !  there's  no- 
thing left.  I  must  begin  to  calculate  again — a  thousand 
pounds — " 

"  But,  Harry,  you  said  it  was  only  nine  hundred,"  said 
Rose. 

"  Well,  so  it  is — it's  all  the  same.  What's  a  hundred  here 
or  there  1 "  said  Harry  the  Magnificent.  "  I  must  just  make 
my  calculation  over  again — that's  all," 

'•  But  can  people  encumbered  as  you  are  afford  to  keep  a 
carriage  on  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a-year  7  "  asked 
Martha. 

'•  Oh,  not  in  the  town,  of  course  ;  but  the  country  is  quite 
different.  Besides,  Allenders  will  improve  to  any  extent ; 
and  I  suppose  I  may  double  my  income  very  soon.  Don't 
fear,  Martha,  we'll  be  very  careful — oh,  don't  be  afraid." 

And  Harry  sincerely  believing  that  no  one  need  be  afraid, 
went  on  in  his  joyous  calculations — beginning  always,  not  a 
whit  discouraged,  when  he  discovered  again  and  again  that  he 
was  calculating  on  a  greater  sum  than  he  possessed  ;  but  it 
soon  became  very  apparent,  even  with  Harry's  sanguine  arith- 
metic, that  it  was  by  no  means  a  difficult  thing  to  spend  a 
thousand  pounds,  and  a  slight  feeling  of  discontent  that  it 
was  not  another  thousand  suddenly  crossed  the  minds  of  all. 

'^  I  see,"  said  Harry,  slowly,  "  it'll  have  to  be  fifty  to  the 
church,  Martha.  Fifty  is  as  much  as  I  can  afford.  It  would 
not  be  just,  to  myself  and  to  you  all,  to  give  more." 

Poor  Harry  !  The  magnificence  of  liberality  was  easier 
to  give  up  than  the  other  magnificences  on  which  he  had  set 
his  heart. 


132  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

But  hark  you,  Kate, 
Whither  I  go,  thither  shall  you  go  too ; 
To-day  will  I  set  forth,  to-morrow  you. 

Henky  IV. 

"  What  could  you  do  in  Allenders  ?  one  never  knows  how 
to  deal  with  you  capricious  women.  Stay  at  home,  Agnes, 
and  manage  your  own  department — it  is  impossible  you  could 
assist  me,  and  you  would  only  be  a  hindrance  to  work.  Stay 
at  home,  I  say,  till  the  place  is  ready  for  you." 

Agnes  laid  down  the  child  softly  upon  the  sofa  where  she 
was  sitting,  and  answered  nothing ;  but  her  face  wore  a  look 
of  resignation  which  Harry  thought  ostentatious,  and  which 
irritated  him  greatly,  as  indeed  his  little  wife  partly  knew. 

He  started  hastily  from  his  seat  with  a  contracted  brow, 
and  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  muttering  something  to 
himself  about  the  impossibility  of  pleasing  every  body.  Poor 
little  Agnes  was  desperately  exerting  herself  to  swallow  a 
sob :  she  did  feel  a  little  fretful  and  peevish,  it  was  very 
true,  but  at  the  same  time  she  honestly  struggled  to  keep  it 
down. 

"  Martha,  say  something,"  whispered  Rose.  "  Harry  is 
angry — speak  to  him,  Martha." 

But  Martha  sat  still  and  said  nothing — for  Harry's  mag- 
nificent intentions  troubled  his  sister  with  an  uneasy  sense  of 
dependence.  It  is  oftentimes  a  greater  exercise  of  generosity  to 
receive  than  to  bestow.  Labouring  for  Harry  would  have  seem- 
ed to  Martha  a  thing  so  natural  as  never  to  disturb  her  every- 
day life  for  a  moment ;  to  be  supported  by  Harry,  called  for 
a  stronger  exertion.  But  Harry's  sister  was  of  stouter  spirit 
than  Harry's  wife.  She  preferred,  even  at  a  risk  of  great 
pain,  to  make  trial  quietly  of  this  new  life,  rather  than  to  say 
how  irksome  to  her  was  the  prospect  of  burdening  her  brotheV, 
and  to  undergo  a  scene  of  indignation,  and  grief,  and  recon- 
cilement. Nevertheless,  Martha  felt  her  influence  abridged, 
and  was  silent — for  this  fortune  did  not  change  her  own  position 
or  that  of  her'  sisters^  Harry  and  his  wife  alone  were  rightful 
sharers   of  this   unexpected  elevation,  and    Martha   stepped 


HARRY   MUIR.  133 

down  from  the  elder  sister's  place,  not  without  a  struggle,  and 
endeavoured  to  turn  her  eyes,  which  had  so  long  expressed  the 
distinct  decisions  of  a  separate  will,  towards  the  young  irreso- 
lute pair  beside  her  as  to  the  heads  of  the  house. 

''Why  don't  you  speak,  Martha?"  exclaimed  Harry  at 
last,  noticing  her  silence  with  a  renewed  burst  of  impatience. 
"  Why  don't  you  say  what  you  think  at  once,  instead  of  sitting 
glooming  at  us  all  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  speak  because  I  begin  now  to  be  your  depen- 
dant, Harry,"  said  Martha,  with  harsh  emphasis ;  "  and 
especially  in  a  matter  where  I  and  these  bairns  may  restrict 
and  hinder  you,  must  now  choose  to  listen  to  your  decision, 
and  not  try  to  influence  it.  That  is  why  I  do  not  speak.  But 
what  I  tliink  is,  that  Agnes,  since  she  wishes  it,  should  go 
with  you,  and  that  we  can  remain  to  do  all  that  is  necessary 
here.  Or  I  can  take  them  home  to  Ayr — anywhere — and 
Agnes  will  like  to  be  with  you  in  your  plannings  and  altera- 
tions, Harry.     Why  should  she  not  go  ?  " 

"  A  dependant ! "  Harry  looked  very  indignant  and  in- 
jured. 

"  Stay,"  said  Martha.  "  Nothing  more  of  this.  A  woman 
needs  to  Idc  so.  I  am  willing ;  but  I  prefer  that  nothing 
should  be  said  of  it,  Harry,  especially  now,  when  I  am  scarcely 
accustomed  to  the  change." 

A  long  silence  followed,  and  each  individual  heart  there 
was  busy  with  its  own  proper  thoughts.  Martha,  ever  proud 
and  harsh,  repeated  to  herself  the  many  necessities  which 
compelled  her  to  remain  an  inmate  of  Harry's  house,  and  to 
relinquish  the  work  by  which  she  had  hitherto  supported  her- 
self— she,  who,  small  as  her  opportunities  were,  had  always 
conferred,  but  never  received,  the  benefits  of  ordinary  life ; 
and  there  came  vividly  upon  her  memory  those  old  dreams  of 
youth,  in  which  she  imagined  herself  the  support,  the  guardian, 
the  protector  of  the  orphan  children  wlio  were  her  charge  in 
the  world.  Now  she  was  Harry's  dependant  sister,  curbing 
and  burdening  his  hands,  and  restraining  the  harmless  in- 
dulgences he  longed  for.  Martha  was  not  content,  not  will- 
ing, not  ready,  like  a  gentler  woman,  to  take  upon  herself  this 
gracious  yoke  of  love,  and  receive  with  sweet  and  becoming 
humility  the  gifts  which  she  could  not  refuse ;  but  she  bent 
her  stubborn  neck  to  them,  and  reminded  herself  of  her  new 
position,  with  a  strong  resolve  to  do  all  its  duties — chiefest  of 
all  to  cover  over  in  her  own  heart,  so  that  no  one  could  dis- 
cern it.  the  bitterness  she  felt. 


134  HARRY    MUIR. 

Harry,  pleased  to  find  himself  not  only  the  most  impor- 
tant person  in  the  household,  but  the  maintainer  and  the  ac- 
knowledged head  of  all,  and  only  half  angry  that  Martha 
should  speak  of  herself  as  his  dependant :  Agnes,  thinking 
solely  that  now  she  had  gained  her  point,  and  should  go  with 
him  to  Allenders ;  Rose,  full  of  new  fears  and  new  hopes,  un- 
willing to  realize  all  that  was  in  her  mind ;  and  little  Lettie, 
last  of  all,  chivalrously  determined  to  win,  by  some  unknown 
means,  a  fortune  and  fame  for  her  sisters,  far  better  than 
Harry's,  surrounded  this  centre  figure  of  the  family  group. 
In  all  minds  there  was  a  vague  dissatisfaction.  This  great 
inheritance,  after  all,  like  every  thing  else  which  deeply  dis- 
turbs a  life,  brought  new  troubles,  no  less  than  new  pleasures, 
in  its  train. 

But  Harry  made  no  further  resistance  to  Agnes's  desire. 
An  involuntary  consciousness  that  it  would  be  ungracious  and 
unkind  to  decide  contrary  to  Martha's  opinion,  after  she  had 
acknowledged  his  authority,  had  greater  eff'ect  upon  his  im- 
pulsive mind  than  the  reasonable  wish  of  his  wife  ;  for  Harry 
came  to  do  much  of  what  was  really  right  in  his  conduct  by 
side  motives  and  impulses,  and  oftcner  made  a  start  in  his 
direct  course  by  an  impetus  from  some  diverging  way,  than 
kept  steadily  on,  because  he  knew  that  his  path  was  the 
straight  one.  But  Agnes  did  not  pause  to  consider  the  motive. 
It  was  enough  to  her  that  her  point  was  gained. 


CHAPTER   XXII 


How  does  your  garden  grow  ? 
With  silver  bells  and  cockle  shells, 
And  pretty  maids  all  of  a  row. 

NURSKRY    KlIYMES. 


It  is  a  bright  May  day,  and  the  home-garden  at  Ayr  is  as 
bright  as  the  season.  Upon  the  fresh  soft  breeze  the  falling 
petals  of  the  apple  blossoms  sweep  down,  fluttering  like  snow- 
flakes  to  the  ground ;  and  the  great  pear  tree  trained  against 
the  wall  is  flushed  to  the  extremity  of  every  bough,  and  has  its 
leaves  smothered  in  its  wealth  of  bloom.  By  the  door  here, 
in  the  sunshine,  is  the  chair  in  which  Alexander  Muir  presides 
over  his   little  flock   of  workers,  and  a  book  held  open  by  his 


HARRY    MUIR.  135 

Spectacles,  still  rests  upon  it ;  but  the  old  man  himself  is  not 
here.  Neither  are  the  girls  here,  you  would  say  at  the  first 
glance  ;  but  look  closer  into  the  shady  corners,  and  listen  only 
five  minutes — it  is  all  you  need  to  discover  your  mistake. 
There  are  pleasant  sounds  in  the  air  ;  softened  young  voices, 
and  light-hearted  laughter  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  Uncle  Sandy's 
chiiir  lies  a  heap  of  muslin,  ballasted  with  stones,  to  keep  it 
safe  and  preserve  it  from  being  blown  away ;  for  Beatie  and 
her  sisterhood  are  idle,  extremely  idle,  and  idle  even,  it  must 
be  confessed,  is  Rose,  the  viceroy,  to  whom  Uncle  Sandy  has 
delegated  his  charge.  They  are  whispering  together,  little 
groups  of  bright  heads,  which  here  and  there,  the  sunshine, 
stretching  over  the  boughs  of  the  great  plane  tree,  finds  out 
and  seizes  on,  tracing  a  single  curl  or  braid  of  hair  with  deli- 
cate gold,  and  throwing  wavy  shadows  over  brow  and  face. 
They  are  dispersed  in  all  the  corners  of  the  garden  ;  but  here, 
leaning  against  the  trunk  of  the  plane  tree,  flushed  with  na- 
tural gratification,  confidential  and  yet  dignified,  stands  Rose 
Muir,  the  centre  of  the  most  important  group. 

Once  these  girls  were  little  Rosie's  playmates ;  now, 
though  Rose  is  not  proud,  she  feels,  no  less  than  they  do,  that 
there  is  a  difi"erence,  and  quite  acquiesces  when  they  call  her 
Miss  Rose,  and  are  respectful  as  well  as  friendly.  She  is 
standing,  with  a  little  of  a  patroness  air,  listening  while  Mary 
Burness  tells  of  Maggie  Crawford's  "  lad,"  and  Maggie  retali- 
ates by  a  rumour  that  Mary  is  to  be  "cried"  in  the  kirk  the 
very  next  Sabbath  day.  Rose  laughs  a  little,  blushes  a  little, 
and  looks  so  happy  and  light-hearted,  that  you  perceive  at 
once  she  could  not  tell  you  why — but  that  there  is  some  un- 
conscious reason  of  still  greater  might  than  the  family  good 
fortune  which  brings  back  the  natural  joy  so  freshly  to  her 
heart. 

By  this  open  window  you  hear  the  sound  of  voices  graver 
and  less  youthful.  Within,  with  her  hand  wandering  among 
the  old  man's  books,  sits  Martha  Muir.  Her  other  hand  holds 
a  piece  of  her  accustomed  work,  but  it  lies  on  her  knee  list- 
lessly ;  and  with  the  unconsciousness  of  preoccupation  she 
turns  over  and  over  the  books  upon  the  window  shelf — old 
familiar  books,  friends  which  nurtured  and  strengthened  her 
own  youth — but  her  hand  wanders  over  them  as  though  they 
were  strangers,  and  she  could  not  tell  you  what  she  looks  at 
with  those  fixed  eyes. 

••  I  hope  it  is  all  over,  uncle."  said  Martha,  slowly  ;  "'  I  trust 


136  HARRY    MUIR. 

it  is — I  trust  it  is.  He  has  had  hard  lessons,  many  of  them 
and  a  great  and  sudden  deliverance.  The  news  of  it  came  to 
me  like  an  angel  from  heaven — for  I  felt  that  it  might  save 
Harry ;  and  so,  I  hope,  I  trust  it  will." 

"  You  hope,  you  trust  ?  we  all  do  that,  Martha,  my  woman," 
said  the  old  man,  anxiously.  "  I  never  kent  an  evil-doing 
stranger  yet  that  I  would  not  have  given  all  the  strength  of  my 
good  wishes  to ;  but,  Martha,  God  has  given  you  a  clearer 
judgment  than  many.  What  think  ye  ?  what  does  your  ain 
mind  decide  as  tlie  most  likely  end  ?  " 

"  God  knows  !  "  said  Martha,  solemnly.  "  I  think  nothing, 
uncle  ;  I  only  trust  and  hope.  I  see  no  sin  in  him  now — poor 
Harry  !  poor  Harry !  and  God  send  the  evil  may  pass  away 
like  the  fearful  dream,  I  sometimes  believe  it  is.  Do  you 
mind  him,  uncle — do  you  mind  the  pure,  grand  boy  he  was  ? 
Oh,  my  Harry !  my  poor  Harry  ! — but  I  speak  as  if  I  was 
despairing,  when,  indeed,  I  am  full  of  hope,"  said  Martha,  look- 
ing up  with  a  faint  smile,  through  the  unusual  tears  which  only 
moistened  her  dried  eyelids,  but  did  not  fall. 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  doubtfully,  with  serious  and 
earnest  anxiety.  She  did  not  lift  her  eyes,  neither  did  she 
seem  inclined  to  say  more ;  but  her  hand  went  wandering, 
wandering,  over  the  books  she  knew  so  well,  opening  and  clos- 
ing them  with  such  unconscious  fingers,  and  mind  so  intently 
preoccupied,  that  he  shook  his  head  as  he  turned  away,  with  a 
prayer,  and  a  pang  in  his  heart.  For  experience,  alas  !  spoke 
to  him  as  it  spoke  to  her — sadly,  hopelessly  ;  and  with  Martha 
he  turned  from  the  subject,  and  would  not  think — would  only 
trust  and  hope. 

"  And  the  other  bairns,"  said  the  old  man,  half  questioning 
her,  half  consoling  himself,  "  the  other  bairns ;  they  at  least 
bring  us  nothing  but  comfort." 

"  Uncle,"  said  Martha,  looking  up  with  quick  curiosity, 
"  what  brings  this  Mr.  Charteris  to  Ayr  ?  what  is  his  business 
here  ?  We  meet  him  wherever  we  go  ;  what  does  he  want  in 
your  house  or  with  us  ?  " 

"  What  is  it  ye  say,  Martha  ?  " 

Alexander  Muir  looked  up  with  an  awakened  face,  and 
glanced  out  through  the  framework  of  leaves  and  blossoms 
round  the  window  to  where  his  niece  Rose  stood  under  the 
great  plane  tree. 

"  Hush  !  look  at  them  !  "  said  Martha,  grasping  her  uncle's 
arm  with  her  hand,  and  bending  forward  eagerly,  as  if  the 
gesture  made  her, hear  as  well  as  see. 


HARRY    MUIR.  137 

There  is  a  stranger  in  the  garden,  lingering  beside  the  va- 
cant chair  on  the  threshold,  looking  wistfully  into  the  shaded 
corner,  with  its  waving  boughs  and  pursuing  sunshine.  Just 
now  they  are  talking  rather  loud  yonder,  and  laughing  with 
unrestrained  glee ;  and  still  it  is  stories  of  courtship  and  mirth- 
ful wooing  which  are  told  to  Rose,  and  still  she  stands  listen- 
ing, well  pleased,  with  smiles  on  her  face,  and  in  her  heart. 
Hose  could  not  tell  you  what  it  is  that  makes  her  step  so  light, 
her  heart  so  free.  It  is  something  which  touches  duller  plea- 
sures into  life,  and  kindles  them  all  with  a  touch  of  its  passing 
wing.  But  it  has  passed  in  the  night  this  angel,  when  she  only 
felt  its  plumes,  and  heard  its  sweet  unrecognised  voice ;  and 
as  yet  she  has  not  seen  the  face  of  this  new  affection,  nor 
blushes  as  she  lifts  her  own,  frankly  to  all  kindly  eyes  ;  yet 
with  the  greatest  zest  she  listens  to  these  girlish  romances,  and 
smiles,  and  asks  questions — questions  which  the  blushing  sub- 
ject of  the  story  does  not  always  refuse  to  answer ;  but  just 
now  the  narrator  has  become  rather  loud,  and  there  is  a  burst 
of  laughter  which  good  Uncle  Sandy  would  reprove  from  his 
window,  if  he  were  not  more  seriously  engaged. 

Suddenly  there  falls  a  complete  silence  on  the  little  group, 
broken  only  after  the  first  moment  by  an  indistinct  tittering 
of  confusion  and  bashfulness,  as  one  by  one  they  steal  away, 
leaving  Rose  alone  under  the  plane  tree — and  the  stranger  ad- 
vances at  a  singular  pace,  which  seems  to  be  composed  of  two 
eager  steps  and  one  slow  one,  towards  her,  as  she  stands,  half- 
reluctant,  with  her  head  drooped  and  the  light  stealing  warmly 
over  her  cheek,  waiting  to  receive  him. 

As  he  advances  the  colour  rises  on  his  forehead.  It  may 
be  because  he  is  aware. of  some  close  scrutiny,  but  however 
that  is,  Cuthbert  Charteris,  who  can  pass  with  the  utmost  cool- 
ness through  every  corner  of  the  Parliament  House,  and  make 
his  appearance  before  the  Lords  who  rule  her  Majesty's  Court 
of  Session  without  a  vestige  of  shyness,  grows  very  red  and 
lets  his  glove  fall,  as  he  advances  to  this  audience.  And  the 
sympathetic  Rose  blushes  too,  and  hangs  down  her  head,  and 
gives  her  hand  reluctantly,  and  wishes  she  were  anywhere  but 
here,  seeing  any  other  person  than  Mr.  Charteris.  Why? 
For  after  all,  there  is  nothing  formidable  about  the  Edinburgh 
advocate,  and  he  has  been  her  brother's  friend. 

Martha's  hand  again  tightened  on  the  old  man's  arm  ; 
then  it  was  slowly  withdrawn,  and  she  sat  still,  looking  at 
them  earnestly — looking  at  them  in  their  fair  youth,  and  with 


138  HARRY    MUIR. 

their  fresh  hopes  round  them,  like  a  saint's  encircling  glory — 
so  great  a  contrast  to  herself. 

"  Well,  Martha,  well,"  said  the  old  man,  in  a  lighter  tone, 
'•  well,  my  woman — no  doubt  neither  you  nor  me  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  the  like  of  this  ;  but  it  is  good,  like  every 
ordinance  of  God.  If  E,osie,  poor  thing,  gets  a  good  man, 
she'll  do  well ;   and  we  need  not  be  vexed  for  that,  Martha.'' 

"  He  is  a  gentleman,  uncle,  and  not  a  rich  one.  They'll 
want  him  to  have  a  rich  wife,"  said  Martha. 

"  Be  content — be  content ;  one  fear  is  over  much  to  foster. 
We'll  have  no  grief  with  Rosie,"  said  Uncle  Sandy,  cheerfully. 
"  If  he  turns  out  well,  she'll  do  well,  Martha ;  but  if  he  turns 
out  ill,  we  must  leave  her  now  to  God's  good  care  and  her  ain 
judgment.  And  what  could  we  have  better  for  her  1  But  we 
need  not  leave  them  their  lane,  either.  I  will  go  and  see 
after  the  other  bairns  myself" 

So  saying,  the  old  man  rose,  and  Martha  lifted  her  work — 
but  in  a  few  minutes  it  again  dropped  on  her  knee,  and  open- 
ing the  window  she  bent  out,  and  suffered  the  pleasant  air  to 
bathe  her  forehead,  and  smooth  out  the  wrinkles  which  care 
had  engraven  on  it.  ''  Take  care  of  them,  take  care  of  them  !  " 
said  Martha,  under  her  breath.  . "  God  help  me  !  I  trust 
more  in  my  own  care  than  in  His." 

"  Ye're  aye  idle — aye  idle.  Do  they  never  come  back  to 
you  in  your  dreams  the  lees  ye  tell  me,  and  the  broken 
promises  ?  "  said  Uncle  Sandy.  "  And  Beatie,  I  had  your 
faithful  word  that  all  that  flower  was  to  be  done  before  the 
morn." 

"  Eh,  but  it  was  the  gentleman,"  said  Beatie,  with  con- 
scious guiLt,  labouring  at  her  muslin  with  great  demonstration 
of  industry. 

'■  The  gentleman  !  He  came  in  himsel.  He  gave  you  no 
trouble,"  said  the  old  man,  shaking  his  head.  ''  And  you've 
been  doing  naething  either,  Jessie  Laipg." 

"  Eh  !  me !  I've  weeded  a'  the  strawberry  beds,  though 
there's  naething  on  them  yet  but  the  blossom,"  said  the 
accused,  in  discontent ;  "  and  Mary,  and  Maggie,  and  the  rest 
of  them,  telling  Miss  Rose  about  their  lads  a'  the  time — and 
naebody  blamed  but  me  !  " 

'•  Miss  Rose  has  gotten  a  lad  o'  her  ain — eh  !  look  at  the 
gentleman !  "  said  another  of  the  sisterhood,  in  an  audible 
whisper. 

For  Rose  had  been  playing  with  a  sprig  of  fragrant  lilac, 


HARRY    MUIR.  139 

which  just  now,  as  she  started  at  sight  of  her  uncle,  fell  upon 
the  path  at  her  foot ;  and,  with  a  deferential  bend,  which 
every  girl  who  saw  it  took  as  a  personal  reverence  to  herself, 
and  valued  accordingly,  Mr.  Charteris  stooped  to  pick  up  the 
fallen  blossom,  and  by  and  by  quite  unobtrusively  placed  it 
in  his  breast. 

Uncle  Sandy  lifted  his  book,  and  seated  himself,  casting  ii 
glance  of  good  pleasure  towards  the  plane  tree,  from  which 
iiose  was  now  approaching  the  door.  Not  a  girl  of  all  those 
workers  who  did  not  observe  intently,  and  with  an  interest 
hardly  less  than  her  own  "  lad  "  received  from  her,  every  look 
and  motion  of  ''  the  gentleman."  Not  one  of  them  who  would 
not  have  intrigued  in  his  behalf  with  native  skill  and  perse- 
verance, had  any  of  the  stock  obstacles  of  romance  stood  in 
Cuthbert's  way.  It  was  pleasant  to  see  the  shy,  smiling, 
blushing  interest  with  which  they  regarded  the  stranger  and 
his  Lady  Rose  ;  something  resembling  the  instinctive,  half- 
pathetic  tenderness  with  which  women  comfort  a  bride  ;  but 
with  more  glee  in  it  than  that. 

By  and  by,  when  these  young  labourers  were  gone,  and 
the  shadows  were  falling  over  the  garden,  where  little  Lettie 
and  Uncle  Sandy's  maid  scattered  pleasant  sounds  and  laugh- 
ter through  the  dim  walks,  as  they  watered  Uncle  Sandy's 
dearest  flowers,  Cuthbert  Charteris  unwillingly  rose  from  the 
dim  seat  by  the  window,  whence  he  could  just  see  Violet  at 
her  self-chosen  task,  and  said  irresolutely  that  he  must  be 
gone.  The  window  was  open.  They  had  been  sitting  for 
some  time  silent,  and  the  wind,  which  blew  in  playfully, 
making  a  little  riot  now  and  then  as  it  lighted  unexpectedly 
upon  the  fluttering  pages  of  an  open  book,  was  sweet  with  the 
breath  of  many  glimmering  hawthorns,  and  of  that  great  old 
lilac  bush — a  garden  and  inheritance  in  itself — which  filled 
the  eastern  corner,  and  hid  the  neighbouring  house  with  its 
delicate  leaves  and  blossoms.  Opposite  to  him,  Cuthbert  still 
saw  the  white  hair  of  the  old  man,  and  something  of  Martha's 
figure  withdrawn  by  his  side ;  but  out  of  a  pleasant  darkness 
which  his  imagination  filled  very  sweetly,  had  come  once  or 
twice  the  voice  of  Rose.  He  could  not  see  her,  it  had  grown 
so  dark,  nor  could  he  do  more  than  feel  a  little  soft  hand  glide 
into  his.  when  he  bade  her  good-night. 

It  had  a  singular  charm,  this  darkness,  and  Cuthbert 
grasped  the  hand  firmly  and  closely  before  it  drew  itself  away. 
Then  he  went  out   into  the  soft  summer  night,  with  its  sweet 


140  HARRY    MUIR. 

dews  and  sounds.  A  smile  was  on  his  face,  his  very  heart 
was  wrapped  in  this  same  soft  fragrant  gloom,  and  he  went 
on  unconsciously  till  he  reached  the  river,  and  stood  there, 
looking  down  upon  the  gentle  water,  flowing  graciously,  with 
a  sweet  ripple,  under  the  pensive  stars. 

His  hand  upon  his  breast  touched  the  lilac  blossom.  He 
drew  it  out  to  look  at  it,  and  held  it  idly  in  his  fingers,  for  his 
first  thought  was  to  drop  the  fading  flower  into  those  pure  cold 
waters,  and  let  it  float  away  towards  that  sea  which  is  the  great 
symbol  of  all  depths.  But  Cuthbert's  second  thought,  more 
usual,  if  not  more  true,  was  to  restore  the  drooping  blossom, 
and  keep  it,  though  it  faded  ;  and  then,  making  an  effort  to 
shake  off  the  pleasant  mystic  darkness  which  hid  him  from 
himself,  Cuthbert  Charteris  roused  his  dreaming  heart,  and 
asked  what  he  did  here. 

What  brought  him  here?  The  same  question  which 
Martha  had  put  to  her  uncle.  No  one  saw  Cuthbert  blush  ; 
no  one  was  witness  to  the  conscious  smile  which  rose  in  spite 
of  himself  upon  his  lip.  What  brought  him  here  ?  In  fact, 
the  slightest  possible  piece  of  business,  which  at  any  other 
time,  a  letter  might  have  managed  ;  but,  in  truth — what  was 
it,  Cuthbert  ? 

And  straightway  the  thought  of  Cuthbert  Charteris  plung- 
ed into  a  long,  discursive  journey,  calculating  probabilities, 
prospects,  necessities  ;  but  through  all  wavered  this  conscious 
smile,  and  he  felt  the  warm  flush  on  his  face,  and  looked,  as 
Rose  had  never  looked  upon  her  passing  angel,  into  the  very 
eyes  of  the  fairy  guide  who  had  led  him  thither.  The  stars 
were  dreaming  in  the  sky,  wrapped  in  soft  radiant  mist,  when 
he  left  the  river-side.  Like  them,  the  young  man's  heart  was 
charmed.  Not  fervent  enough  for  passion  yet,  nor  manstrong 
as  it  would  be — charmed,  fascinated,  dreaming — a  spell  of 
magic  over  him,  was  this  new  power — the  earliest  spring  of 
a  life  which  should  weave  itself  yet  into  the  very  strength  of 
his. 


HARRY    MUIR.  141 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

A  home  to  rest,  a  shelter  to  defend. 

Pleasuees  of  Hope. 

The  evening  sun  shines  into  the  drawing-room  of  AUenders — 
the  drawing-room  newly  completed  and  magnificent,  through 
which  Harry  Muir's  little  wife  goes  merrily,  laughing  aloud  as 
she  pauses  to  admire  again  and  again  those  luxurious  easy- 
chairs  and  sofas,  which  it  is  almost  impossible  to  believe  are 
her  own.  It  is  a  long  room  occupying  the  whole  breadth  of 
the  house,  for  Harry  has  taken  Cuthbert's  hint,  and  thrown 
down  the  partition  which  once  made  two  dim  bed-chambers, 
where  now  is  this  pretty  drawing-room. 

From  the  western  window  you  can  see  the  long  light  steal- 
ing over  Bannockburn,  tracing  bright  lines  of  softened  green 
and  yellow  along  the  wide  strath,  and  laying  down  upon  the 
swelliug  fields  as  it  passes  away  such  a  depth  of  dewy  rest 
and  shadow  as  never  lay  in  any  land  of  dreams.  And  the 
hill-tops  are  dusty  and  mazed  with  the  rays  which  stream 
over  them,  a  flood  of  golden  streaks,  falling  out  of  the  light 
like  drooping  hair  ;  while  nearer,  at  our  very  feet,  as  we  stand 
by  this  window,  the  burn  below  flashes  out  through  the  heavy 
alder  boughs,  in  such  sweet  triumph  over  its  crowning  sun- 
beam, that  you  unconsciously  smile  in  answer  to  its  smiling,  as 
3^ou  would  to  any  other  childish  joy. 

From  the  other  window  you  can  look  out  upon  Demeyet. 
somewhat  sullenly  receiving  the  radiance  of  the  sunset.  He, 
stout  rebel,  loves  better  the  young  morning,  whose  earliest 
glance  is  over  his  head,  before  her  eyelids  are  fully  opened. 
How  she  glances  up  playfully  behind  him,  how  she  shrinks 
under  his  great  shoulder,  you  will  see,  when  you  see  the  sun 
rise  upon  the  links  of  Forth.  But  Demeyet,  like  many  an- 
other, does  not  know  when  fortune  is  kindest  to  him,  nor  ever 
guesses  that  he  himself,  with  those  royal  purple  tints  upon  his 
robed  shoulders,  and  the  flitting  shades  which  cover  his  brow, 
like  the  waving  plume,  sbows  his  great  form  to  better  advan- 
tage now,  than  when  the  faint  morning  red,  and  the  rising  light 
behind,  darkened  him  with  his  own  shadow.  Wherefore  De- 
meyet receives  the  sunlight  sullenly,  and   glooms  upon  merry 


142  HARRY    MUIR. 

Agnes  Muir  at  the  window  of  Allenders'  drawing-room,  till 
she  can  almost  fancy  that  he  lifts  a  shadowy  arm,  and  clenches 
a  visionary  hand  to  shake  it  at  her  threateningly  with  defiance 
and  disdain. 

A  silver  tea-service,  engraven  with  the  Allenders'  crest, 
and  china  the  most  delicate  that  Agnes  ever  saw,  glitter  on 
the  table,  which  is  covered  besides  with  every  rare  species  of 
''  tea-bread  "  known  to  the  ingenious  bakers  of  Stirling.  And 
now  Agnes  glides  round  and  round  the  table,  endeavouring  to 
recollect  some  one  thing  omitted,  but  cannot  find  any  excuse 
for  ringing  the  bell  and  summoning  one  of  her  handmaidens 
to  get  another  survey  of  the  tout  ensemble^  which  dazzles  the 
eyes  of  the  little  wife.  Harry  has  gone  to  Stirling  to  meet 
and  bring  home  his  sisters  ;  and  Uncle  Sandy,  their  escort  and 
guardian,  is  with  them  for  a  visit ;  and  so  is  poor  little  Katie 
Calder,  the  oppressed  attendant  of  Miss  Jean.  It  is  true  that 
Agnes  is  very  afiectionate  and  very  grateful — that,  herself 
motherless,  she  clings  to  Martha,  and  would  immediately  suc- 
cumb in  any  strait  to  the  stronger  mind,  and  character,  and 
will  of  the  eldest  member  of  their  little  household  ;  but  withal, 
Agnes  is  mortal,  and  it  is  impossible  to  deny  that  there  is 
quite  a  new  and  delightful  pleasure  to  her  in  feeling  herself, 
and  in  having  others  feel,  that  it  is  her  house  to  which  the 
sisters  are  coming — that  she  is  the  head  of  the  family,  the 
house-mother,  and  that  all  the  glories  of  this  grandest  of  pala- 
ces are  her  own. 

Now  a  faint  rumbling  of  distant  carriage-wheels  strikes  on 
the  excited  ear  of  Agnes,  but  no  carriage  is  visible  from  the 
windows — so  she  runs  impatiently  up  some  flights  of  narrow 
winding  stairs,  and  emerges,  out  of  breath,  upon  the  gallery, 
which  conducts  to  the  little  turret  of  Allenders.  This  gallery 
is  very  small — three  people  standing  in  it  would  make  quite  a 
little  crowd  ;  but  then  it  commands  a  far-off  view  of  the  Forth, 
beyond  Alloa  in  one  direction,  and  of  Stirling's  crowned  rock, 
and  the  Highland  hills,  and  what  is  still  more  important  at 
this  moment,  of  the  Stirling  road,  on  the  other. 

And  yonder,  along  the  white  line  of  the  Stirling  road, 
seen  at  present  only  in  a  glimpse  through  the  trees,  comes 
the  pretty  open  carriage,  the  price  of  which  Harry  is  afraid 
to  think  of,  his  latest  purchase,  with  its  strong  bay  horse  and 
its  smart  groom  driver,  beside  whom  Harry  himself,  still  wise 
enough  to  acknowledge  that  he  cannot  drive,  sits  leaning  back, 
to  point  out  triumphantly  to  the  crowded  company  behind 


HARRY    MUIR.  143 

him  the  first  glimpse  of  their  new  house.  Martha  and  Uncle 
Sandy,  Rose  and  the  two  children,  fill  t^e  coach  almost  to 
over-brimming  ;  and  though  the}^  are  all  dusty  and  hot,  there 
are  bright  looks  on  every  face  of  them.  But  Agnes  does  not 
pause  to  look  at  their  faces,  but  flies  down  stairs,  nearly  trip- 
ping herself  with  the  wide  folds  of  her  muslin  gown,  to  throw 
the  door  hospitably  open,  and  stand  herself,  dignified  like  a 
matron  and  head  of  a  family,  on  the  threshold  to  receive  the 
strangers. 

At  the  gate,  the  innocent  Dragon  of  AUenders  twirls  his 
rusty  hat  feebly  on  a  stick,  and  laughs  to  himself  with  his 
slow  chuckle  as  he  leans  upon  the  open  gate  ;  and  half  in 
curiosity,  half  because  the  house-maid  was  once  in  Sir  John 
Dunlop's,  and  has  very  proper  notions  of  what  is  due  to  the 
"  family,"  Agnes  finds  both  her  servants  standing  behind  her 
in  the  hall.  The  little  wife  holds  her  head  high,  and  overflows 
with  dignity  and  innocent  stateliness,  all  the  while  feeling  an 
almost  irresistible  inclination  to  relieve  herself  with  a  burst 
of  incredulous,  wondering  laughter ;  for  how  she  ever  came  to 
be  a  great  lady,  Agnes  cannot  comprehend. 

Now,  Lettie,  jump  !  Be  first  out  of  the  grand  carriage — 
first  upon  the  bright  green  lawn  of  AUenders.  See,  yonder 
are  soft-voiced  doves  upon  the  turret ;  and  the  spear-head,  no 
longer  tarnished,  throws  gleams  about  it  in  the  sunshine  upon 
those  twinkling,  tremulous  aspen  leaves  ;  and  listen  here  to 
this  child's  tongue  singing,  calling  to  you  though  the  language 
is  not  yours — the  burn,  Lettie  !  and  this  brown  foliage  is  the 
fragrant  walnut ;  and  past  the  grey  walls  and  that  dim  library 
window  is  a  broad  gleam  of  silver,  all  fretted  and  broken  by 
twining  boughs  and  foliage,  for  that  is  the  river — the  grand 
Forth — and  this  is  fairy  land  ! 

•'  Oh,  Martha,  Martha  ! — Rose  ! — Uncle  !"  cried  Agnes, 
running  forward  to  the  carriage  door ;  but  as  Martha  alight- 
ed, and  took  both  her  hands,  the  young  house-mother  forgot 
her  dignity,  and  instead  of  the  pretty  speech  she  had  been 
meditating,  only  exclaimed  again  :  ''  Oh  !  Martha,  Martha  !  " 
and  burst  into  a  fit  of  tears. 

Laughing,  sobbing,  smiling,  Agnes  led  them  up  stairs — 
and  hurried  them  through  all  the  rooms.  A  pretty  apart- 
ment, looking  to  the  river,  had  been  chosen  for  Martha  and 
Rose,  while  a  smaller  one  within  it  was  for  the  children. 
They  were  all  perfectly  and  carefully  fitted  up — alas  '  for 
Harry's  nine  hundred  pounds. 


144  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Bairns,  I  will  ask  a  blessing,"  said  uncle  Sandy,  as  they 
gathered  round  th* tea-table. 

There  was  an  instant  hush,  and  Rose  shrouded  little 
Harry's  head  with  her  hand,  and  pressed  him  closer  to  her 
side,  to  still  even  the  child  into  reverent  silence.  She  was 
seated  close  by  the  old  man,  and  he,  too,  raised  one  hand  to 
shade  his  reverent  forehead,  and  solemnly  lifted  the  other. 

'•  Lord,  a  blessing  on  these  offered  mercies,  a  blessing  or. 
this  roof  tree,  upon  our  meeting  and  our  sundering,  and  upon 
these  Thy  bairns,  fatherless  and  motherless,  whom  Thou  hast 
led  hitherto,  and  brought  pitifully  unto  this  day.  Grive  them 
out  of  the  ark  of  Thy  covenant,  comfort  them  with  strength 
and  succour  from  all  evil,  for  the  Lord's  sake.     Amen." 

There  was  a  momentary  solemn  pause,  after  the  voice 
ceased — and  Rose  bent  down  over  the  child  to  hide  her  face : 
and  Agnes,  with  the  tears  still  in  her  eyes,  looked  wistfully  at 
the  old  man ;  and  Harry  cast  down  his,  and  laid  his  hand 
softly  on  Martha's  hand.  No  one  said  there  were  fears  and 
hopes — intensest  hopes  and  fears  in  this  new  beginning — nor 
that  its  brightness  trembled  with  a  solemn  peradventure :  but 
at  this  moment  all  had  a  consciousness  of  putting  themselves 
and  their  fate  into  the  hand  of  God,  and  of  waiting  for  what 
he  should  bring  out  of  those  unknown  years.  "  I  cannot  tell 
— God  knows  what  is  to  come,"  said  Martha's  heart,  as  it 
yearned  within  her  over  them  all ;  and  there  came  to  each  a 
strange  humility  and  trust.  God  knows  !  one  can  look  calmly 
into  a  future  which,  step  by  step,  is  known  to  our  pitiful,  great 
Father.  Day  by  day — hour  by  hour — they  must  each  of  them 
come  to  us  out  of  the  heavens,  full  and  rounded  with  the  daily 
tribulation,  the  daily  gladness  which  is  appointed  to  their  lot. 
But  God  knows  now  the  way  which  we  shall  learn  by  single 
footsteps — knows  and  appoints  it  for  us  out  of  His  great  love 
— God  knows — it  is  very  well. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

Now  is  the  May  of  life. 


EOGERS. 


''  Eh,  Violet !  there's  twa  men-servants,  and  twa  maids  !"  said 
little  Katie  C  alder. 

Katie  was  short  and  stout,  with  a  plump,  good-humoured 


HARRY    MUIR.  145 

face,  and  wealth  of  long  fair  hair,  and  a  bright-printed  frock, 
bought  for  her  by  Uncle  Sandy  himself,  to  replace  the  faded 
liveries  of  Miss  Jean.  Katie  had  no  turn  for  literature  or 
poetry,  like  her  little  kinswoman  :  but  to  make  up  for  that, 
she  was  stout-hearted  and  adventurous,  redoubtable  in  winter 
slides  and  summer  rambles,  and  with  as  honest  and  "  aefauld" 
a  child's  heart  as  ever  looked  through  blue  eyes.  Miss  Jean 
Calder  and  her  penurious  oppression  had  subdued  Kate,  but 
they  had  not  crushed  her  ;  for  Katie  was  not  given  to  solitary 
thoughts  or  plaintive  resignation.  So  instead  of  standing 
shyly  by,  as  Violet  might  have  done,  and  looking  on  with  a 
longing  wish  to  join  the  plays  of  happier  children,  Katie  made 
bold  dashes  amongst  them,  content  rather  to  pay  for  her  play 
by  a  good  fit  of  crying,  when  summoned  in  to  the  invariable 
scold,  than  to  want  altogether  the  wholesome  "  fun  "  which  was 
the  child's  natural  breath.  So  now  being  prepared  by  a  few 
days'  freedom  in  Uncle  Sandy's  house  at  Ayr,  for  the  liberty 
and  kindliness,  though  scarcely  for  the  grandeur  of  Allenders, 
Katie's  happy  spirit  had  entirely  thrown  off  the  fear  and  bon- 
dage of  Miss  Jean.  She  was  sitting  on  a  low  stool  half- 
dressed,  plaiting  the  long  hair  which  streamed  over  her  plump 
shoulders,  and  looking  with  great  admiration  at  the  new  chintz 
frock  carefully  spread  out  upon  a  chair,  which  she  had  worn 
for  the  first  time  yesterday. 

'•  Eh,  Katie  !  if  you  only  saw  how  the  sun's  rising  behind 
yon  muckle  hill ! "  answered  Violet  from  the  window. 

"  And  you  never  saw  such  a  fine  kitchen,"  pursued  Katie, 
"  a'  the  walls  glittering  with  things,  and  as  big  as  folks  could 
*  dance  in;  and  such  a  room  with  books  down  the  stair.  Did 
you  think  there  was  as  mony  in  the  world,  Lettie?" 

'•  But  they're  no  for  reading,"  said  Violet  disconsolately, 
••  for  I  tried  them  last  night ;  and  I  would  rather  have  Mr. 
Sim's  library  in  the  Cowcaddens." 

'•  Were  there  stories  in  it  ?  Eh  Violet,  do  you  think  there's 
ony  fairy  tales  down  the  stair  ?  for  I  like  them,"  said  Katie 
.  Calder  ;  "  but  if  I  put  on  my  new  frock  the  day,  it'll  no  be 
clean  on  Sabbath  to  gang  to  the  kirk." 

"  There's  Rose  down  in  the  garden — and  there's  the  old 
man  that  Harry  calls  Dragon,"  cried  Violet.  "  Come,  Katie, 
and  see  the  Forth  and  our  boat." 

'-  It's  no  so  bonnie  as  our  ain  water  at  hame,  and  there's 
nae  brigs,"  said  Katie,  as  she  donned  her  new  frock,  and  anx- 
iously examined  it.  to  see  whether  yesterday's  journey  had  left 
7 


146  HARRY    MUIR. 

any  trace  upon  its  bright  folds ;  for  Katie  was  a  thrifty  little 
woman,  and  knew  that  she  had  no  other  dress  worthy  of  Al- 
lenders. 

It  was  still  very  early.  Rose  had  newly  left  the  house, 
and  now  stood  alone  under  the  great  shadow  of  the  walnut 
tree,  looking  up  at  the  windows,  beyond  which  the  greater  part 
of  the  household  were  still  asleep.  She  had  left  Martha  in  a 
deep,  quiet,  dreamless  slumber,  which  did  not  begin  till  the 
sky  was  reddening  over  Demeyet ;  and  Rose,  who  had  just 
been  congratulating  herself  on  having  a  free  unoccupied  horn- 
to  think,  stood  now  endeavouring,  with  some  confusion,  to  re- 
collect what  it  was  she  wanted  to  think  about.  Her  mind 
was  in  a  tumult  of  sweet  morning  fancies,  and  the  something 
on  which  she  resolved  to  meditate,  eluded  her,  with  many  a 
trick  and  wile,  like  a  playful  child.  A  slight  wavering  blush 
came  over  her  face,  as  now  and  then  she  seemed  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  it  for  a  moment ;  but  immediately  it  was  lost  again 
among  the  thick-coming  fancies  of  her  stirred  and  wakening 
mind  ;  yet  strangely  enough.  Rose  did  not  pass  the  library 
window,  nor  seek  the  mall  by  the  water-side.  Not  very  long 
ago,  nothing  could  have  interested  her  more  than  the  river  and 
the  hills  beyond ;  now  she  only  threw  herself  down  on  the 
lawn  beneath  the  walnut  tree,  and  leaning  her  head  on  her 
hand,  played  with  the  grass  on  which  her  eyes  were  bent,  and 
mused  and  pondered  with  a  downcast  face.  Sometimes  in- 
deed, her  eyes  were  closed,  and  even  when  she  opened  them 
the  dreamer  saw  nothing  of  Allenders.  No ;  for  she  was 
secretly  making  pictures  which  could  not  bear  the  eye  of  day, 
much  less  the  inspection  of  brother  or  sister;  remembering,* 
with  such  strange  tenacity  of  recollection,  what  was  done  and 
what  was  said,  on  yonder  May  evening  in  the  garden  at  Ayr, 
and  in  the  gloom  of  the  little  parlour,  and  unconsciously  creat- 
ing other  scenes  like  that,  in  which  the  same  chief  actor  bore 
the  hero's  part. 

Rose !  Rose  !  you  would  blush  and  start  like  guilt,  did 
any  home  voice  at  this  moment  call  your  name  ;  but  the  spell 
of  this  dreaming  clings  to  you  like  slumber,  and  you  can  no 
more  shake  it  off,  than  you  could  the  sweet  deep  sleep  which 
last  night  surprised  you  against  your  will,  and  changed  those 
waking  musings  into  the  fantastic  visions  of  the  night ;  and 
your  eyes  grow  heavy.  Rose,  while  your  heart  wanders  in  this 
maze,  and  a  soft  uncertainty  steals  over  your  fair  pictures, 
though  with  a  sudden  start,  half  of  displeasure,  you  hear  the 


HARRY    MUIR.  147 

steps  of  the  cliildren  hastening  to  join  you,  and  give  up  your 
maiden  meditations  with  a  sigh. 

Behind  the  walnut  tree,  the  poor  old  Dragon  feebly  bends 
over  the  flower  beds,  plucking  up  here  and  there,  witli  an  ef- 
fort, a  solitary  weed,  but  oftenest  looking  idly  towards  Rose, 
whom  he  would  fain  go  and  speak  to,  were  not  her  preoccupa- 
tion so  evident.  The  great  walnut  waves  its  large  fragrant 
leaves  in  the  soft  morning-air  between  them,  and  the  sun  burns 
in  the  gilded  spear  on  the  turret,  and  the  broad  light  clothes 
the  whole  country  like  a  garment.  Strongly  contrasted  in  this 
framework  of  summer  life  about  them,  are  the  two  human 
creatures  who  complete  the  picture.  The  girl  lingering  on  the 
threshold  of  a  fair  life  unknown  to  her,  and  peopling  all  its 
fairy  world  with  scenes  which  thrill  her  to  a  half-conscious 
joy  ;  the  old  man  in  the  torpor  of  great  age,  vacantly  admir- 
ing her  fresh  youth,  and  with  a  strange,  dim  curiosity  about 
her,  who  she  is,  and  what  she  would  say  if  he  addressed  her. 
To  him  a  long  life  has  passed  like  a  dream,  and  appears  in  a 
mist  to  his  memory,  as  in  a  mist  it  appears  to  her  imagination  ; 
but  the  time  is  long  past  when  anything  could  find  out  the 
old  faint  beating  heart  of  Adam  Comrie,  to  thrill  it  with  emo- 
tion. His  curiosities,  his  likings,  his  thoughts,  have  all  be- 
come vague  as  a  child's  :  but  they  lie  on  the  surface,  and  never 
move  him,  as  a  child's  fancies  do. 

'•  See  how  the  old  man  looks  at  Rose,"  whispered  Katie 
Calder  ;  "  but  she  doesna  see  him  yet ;  and  Violet,  look  at  her. 
She's  bonnie." 

''  But  what  way  is  she  sitting  there?  "  said  Violet,  wonder- 
ingly,  '■  when  she  might  be  at  the  water-side.  She's  thinking 
about  Harry;  but  what  needs  folk  think  about  Harry  now? 
Harry  is  in  his  bed  and  sleeping,  Rose  ;  but,  oh  !  I  see — you 
were  not  thinking  about  him  after  all." 

Rose  started  with  a  vivid  blush.  No,  indeed,  she  had  not 
been  thinking  of  Harry ;  it  sounded  like  an  accusation. 

'•  And  you'll  be  yon  birkie's  Lady  Rose  ?  "  said  the  Dragon, 
coming  forward.  "  Aweel,  I  wadna  say  but  he  thought  ye  bon- 
nier than  my  white  bush ;  but  they  didna  howk  up  the  rose 
either  ;  that's  ae  comfort — though  nae  thanks  to  him,  nor  to 
this  lad,  Mr.  Hairy,  that  took  his  counsel.  What  do  they  ca' 
this  little  bairn  ?  " 

"  My  name's  Violet,"  said  Lettie,  with  dignity. 

'•  There  was  a  Miss  Violet  in  the  last  family ;  but  she 
would  have  made  six  o'  that  bit  creature,"  said  the  old  ser- 
vant.    '"What  wav  are  ye  a'  sac  woo?  " 


148  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Eh  !  Lettie's  a  head  higher  than  me  !  "  exclaimed  Katie 
Calder  in  amazement. 

"  Are  you  gaun  to  be  married  upon  yon  birkie  now,  if  ane 
might  speer?  "  asked  the  feeble  Dragon.  "  I've  lived  about 
this  house  sixty  year,  but  there  hasna  been  a  wedding  a'  that 
time  ;  and  now  how  I'm  to  do  wi'  young  wives  and  weans  I 
canna  tell.  The  last  Allenders  had  a  wife  ance,  folk  say,  but 
I  never  mind  of  her.  He  was  ninety  year  auld  when  he  died, 
and  lived  a  widow  three  score  years  and  five.  I'm  eighty  my- 
sel,  and  I  never  was  married.  It's  aye  best  to  get  ower  the 
like  o'  that  when  folk's  young ;  but  you're  just  a  lassie  yet ; 
you  should  wait  awhile,  and  be  sicker ;  and  yon  birkie  has  nae 
reverence  for  the  constitution.  I'm  an  awfu'  guid  hand  for 
judging  a  man,  and  I  ken  as  muckle  by  what  he  said  about 
the  windows." 

"Eh,  Rose,  is't  Mr.  Charteris  that's  the  birkie ?"  cried 
Violet,  with  extreme  interest. 

But  Rose  had  risen  from  the  grass,  and  now  leaned  upon 
the  walnut  tree,  vainly  trying  to  look  serious  and  indifferent. 
This  face  which  had  been  eluding  her  dreams  so  long,  looked 
in  gravely  now  upon  her  heart ;  and  Rose  trembled  and  blush- 
ed, and  could  not  speak,  but  had  a  strong  inclination  to  run 
away  somewhere  under  cover  of  the  leaves,  and  weep  a  few 
tears  out  of  her  dazzled  eyes,  and  soothe  her  heart  into  calm- 
er beating.  The  old  man  chuckled  once  more  in  childish  ex- 
ultation. 

"  I'll  no  tell — ye  may  trust  me — and  if  ye'll  come  in 
ower,  I'll  let  you  see  the  white  rose-bush  that  garred  yon 
birkie  name  ye  to  me.  Whaur  are  ye  for,  you  little  anes? 
is't  the  boat  the  bairns  want  ?  I'm  saying  ! — I'll  no  hae  ony 
o'  you  drowning  yoursels  in  the  water :  and  I  gie  you  fair 
warning,  if  you  should  fa'  in  twenty  times  in  a  day,  I'm  no 
gaun  to  risk  life  and  limb  getting  ye  out  again — it  doesna 
stand  to  reason  that  a  wean's  life  should  be  as  valuable  to  this 
witless  world  as  the  life  of  an  aged  man.  And  I've  had 
muckle  experience  in  my  day — muckle  experience,  Miss  Rose  ; 
and  aye  glad  to  communicate,  as  the  Apostle  bids,  and  ready 
to  give  counsel,  wi'  nae  mair  pride  than  if  I  had  seen  but  ae 
score  o'  years  instead  of  four.     It's  a  great  age." 

"  And  do  they  call  you  Dragon  ?  "  asked  Violet,  shyly. 

"  That's  what  they  ca'  me  ;  for  I've  lang  keepit  Allenders, 
and  been  a  carefu'  man  of  a'  in  it,  from  the  master  himsel  to 
the   berry  bushes ;    but  m}'  right  name   is  Edom   Comrie,  if 


HARRY    MUIR.  149 

onybocly  likes  to  be  so  civil  as  ca'  me  that.  I'm  saying,  wee 
Missie,  do  ye  think  I  could  carry  ye  ?  but  I'm  no  so  strong  as 
I  was  forty  year  ago." 

''  You  could  carry  little  Harry ;  but  I  can  rin,  and  so  can 
Katie  Calder."  said  Violet. 

"Wha's  Katie  Calder?" 

"It's  me."  answered  the  little  stranger;  "and  I'm  Lettic 
Muir's  third  cousin  ;  and  I'm  to  stay  at  Allenders,  and  no  to 
go  back  to  Miss  Jean  any  more." 

'•  Weel,  ye  maun  baith  be  guid  bairns.  I  like  guid  bairns 
mysel,"  said  the  old  man  ;  "  and  ye  can  just  come  to  me  when 
ye  want  a  piece  scone  or  a  wheen  berries,  and  there's  nae  fears 
o'  ye ;  and  I'll  aye  gie  them  an  advice,  Miss  Rose,  and  ^lind 
them  of  their  duty.  Ye  needna  be  feared  but  I'll  do  grand 
with  the  bairns." 

••  Do  you  live  in  the  house  ?  "  asSed  Rose,  a  little  timidly, 
for  she  was  somewhat  alarmed  at  the  second  sight  of  the  poor 
old  Dragon. 

'•  That  minds  me  ye  havena  seen  my  room,"  said  Dragon, 
briskly.  "  Come  your  ways  round — aye,  I  just  live  in  Al- 
lenders— and  gie  me  a  baud  o'  your  hands,  bairns,  and  Miss 
Rose  will  come  after  us,  and  ye'll  get  a  sight  of  my  house." 

So  the  soft  warm  childish  hands,  glided  into  the  withered 
fingers  of  the  old  man,  and  Rose  followed,  passing  by  the  lux- 
uriant white  rose-bush,  now  blooming  in  the  full  flush  of  its 
snowy  flowers  under  the  new  window  of  the  dining-room,  into 
a  little  court-yard  behind  where  was  the  stable  and  byre,  and 
where  Mysie,  the  Dragon's  grand-niece,  was  just  then  milking 
the  cow.  This  great  temptation,  Violet  and  Katie  withstood 
womanfully,  and  passing  the  milk-pail  and  the  active  hands 
which  filled  it.  with  an  efi'ort,  looked  round  somewhat  impa- 
tiently for  the  Dragon's  den. 

"Ye  maun  come  up  here,"  said  the  old  man,  "  ane  at  a 
time — ane  at  a  time — and  if  ye're  light-headed,  take  a  grip 
o'  the  wa',  for  folk  are  whiles  dizzy  on  an  outside  stair  ;  and 
now  here  you  see  I  have  like  a  wee  house  all  to  mysel." 

The  "  outside  stair  "was  very  narrow  and  much  worn  ;  it 
was  evident  it  had  undergone  no  repair  in  all  Harry's  labours, 
and  Rose  was  fain  to  grasp  herself  at  a  withered  branch  of 
ivy  which  still  clung  to  the  wall,  though  life  and  sap  had  long 
departed  from  it,  to  secure  her  own  safe  passage  upwards,  and 
to  stretch  out  her  arm  on  the  other  side  in  terror  for  the 
children.     Adam  Comrie's  room  was  only  the  loft  over  the 


150  HARRY    MUIR. 

stable,  a  square  low  place,  with  bare  rafters  and  a  sky-ligbt  in 
the  roof ;  but  Adam's  bed  was  in  one  corner,  and  on  a  little 
table,  immediately  under  the  window,  stood  a  bowl,  ready  for 
Adam's  porridge,  and  the  little  round  pot  in  which  he  made 
it,  was  beside  his  little  fire. 

"  For  ye  see  when  it  behooved  me  to  live  a'thegether  at 
Allenders,  the  auld  maister  caused  build  me  a  bit  grate  into  the 
wall.  I  was  a  young  lad  then,  and  might  have  taken  my 
meat  in  the  kitchen  with  Eppie,  but  I  aye  was  of  an  independ- 
ent kind,  and  [  had  mair  faith  in  my  ain  parritch  and  kail 
than  in  onybody  else's  ;  so  I  came  to  be  a  constant  residenter 
here  ;  and  there's  the  Lady's  Well  no  a  dizzen  yards  from  the 
stair  fit,  and  the  kitchen  very  near  hand.  Do  ye  like  stories? 
Weel,  I'll  tell  ye  some  day  the  story  o'  the  Lady's  Well." 

"Eh,  Dragon,  is't  a  .fairy  tale?"  asked  Katie  Calder, 
with  wide-open  eyes. 

"  Naebody  can  tell  that ;  but  I  have  plenty  of  fairy  tales," 
said  the  old  man.  "  Ye  see,  it  was  in  the  auld  times,  maybe 
twa  hundred  year  ago,  or  mair  siller,  that  the  Laird  of  Allen- 
ders had  a  yeung  daughter,  and  her  name  was — aye,  Miss 
Rose,  that's  my  meal  ark — it  doesna  baud  muckle  aboon  a 
peck  at  a  time ;  and  here's  where  I  keep  my  bannocks,  and  I 
have  a  wee  kettle  and  a  pickle  tea  and  sugar  there ;  and  for 
the  greens  I  have  just  to  gang  down  to  the  garden  and  cut 
them,  nae  leave  asked,  and  my  drap  milk  brought  regular  to 
the  very  door.  Ye  see  I'm  weel  off,  and  I'm  ready  to  own  it 
and  be  thankful,  instead  of  graneing  forever  like  some  folk — 
for  I'm  real  comfortable  here." 

"  And  have  you  no  friends  ?  "  asked  Rose. 

"  Weel,  there's  Mysie  down  there,  milking  the  cow,  and 
there's  her  father,  my  sister's  son.  Eh,  to  see  the  ill  the  warld 
and  a  family  do  to  a  man  !  for  there's  that  lad  G-eordie  Paxton, 
no  fifty  year  auld,  and  he's  a  mair  aged  man  than  me — '  for 
such  shall  have  sorrow  in  the  flesh,'  the  Apostle  says  ;  and 
never  being  married  mysel,  ye  see,  and  keeping  up  nae  troke 
wi'  far-off  kin,  that's  a'  the  friends,  except  a  cousin,  here  and 
there,  that  I  hae." 

"  And  does  naebody  ever  come  to  see  you  ?  "  asked  Katie. 

"  No  a  creature — wha  should  mind  me,  a  silly  auld  man?  " 
answered  the  Dragon,  with  a  momentary  pathos  in  his  tone. 
"  And  I  couldna  be  fashed  wi'  strangers  either,  and  you  see  I 
hae  a 'thing  within  mysel,  milk  and  meal,  board  and  bed,  sae 
that  I'm  nae  ways  dependent  on  either  fremd-folk  or  friends ; 


HARRY    MUIR.  151 

but  ye  may  speak  for  me  if  you  like,  Miss  Rose,  to  Mr.  Hairy 
for  a  book  whiles.  There's  grand,  solid  books  yonder  of  the 
auld  maister's,  and  there's  ane  or  twa  that  I  found  out  no  lang 
syne  that  wadna  do  for  the  like  of  you — I  wouldna  consent  to 
lead  away  the  young  wi'  them  ;  but  they  do  weel  enough  to 
divert  an  auld  man  that  has  experience  of  the  world,  and  kens 
guid  from  evil ;  and  I'll  promise  faithful  to  burn  every  word 
o'  them  when  I've  ta'en  the  divert  mysel.  Here's  ane,  ye  see. 
I  wadna  let  you  read  it,  and  you  a  young  lassie ;  but  ye  may 
look  at  its  name." 

And  looking,  Rose  discovered  in  the  charred  bundle  of 
leaves  which  lay  on  the  old  man's  hob,  and  lighted  his  fire,  a 
torn  "  Vicar  of  Wakefield." 

"Eh,  I've  read  that !  "  said  Violet,  under  her  breath  ;  and 
Violet  looked  on  with  horror  as  if  at  a  human  sacrifice. 

"  Every  morning,  when  I  take  a  page  for  my  light,  I  read 
it  first,"  said  the  Dragon,  chuckling  ;  "  there's  that  muckle 
diversion  in't ;  but  it's  no  for  you — it's  no  for  the  like  of  you." 


CHAPTER   XXV. 


Neither  a  borrower  nor  a  lender  be. 
For  borrowing  dulls  the  edge  of  husbandry. 
Hamlkt. 


"  Harry,  my  man,  you  must  be  canny  with  the  siller,"  said 
Uncle  Sandy.  "  It's  a  snare  to  the  feet  of  many — and  mind, 
this  fortune  brings  such  a  change  in  your  case,  that  there  is  a 
danger  of  you  thinking  it  greater  than  it  is." 

"  No  fear,  uncle,"  said  Harry,  pausing  in  his  new  land-pro- 
prietor mood  to  cut  down  a  thistle  with  a  swinging  blow  of  his 
cane.  "  No  fear,  I  say.  I'll  live  up  to  my  income,  but  then 
that  is  perfectly  legitimate,  for  the  estate  does  not  die  with 
me.  Just  now.  of  course,  there  are  a  number  of  expenses 
which  never  will  be  renewed  in  my  time — all  this  improve- 
ment and  furnishing — and  that  may  straighten  me  for  a  year, 
perhaps — but  then  I  expected  that ;  and  I  don't  want  to  hoard 
and  lay  up  money,  uncle." 

'•  Nor  would  I  want  that,  Harry,"  said  the  old  man  ;  ''  far 
from  it — but  mind — 


152  '  HARRY    MUIR. 

'No  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge. 

Nor  for  a  train  attendant, 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent.' 

I  am  not  a  man  to  blaw  about  independence,  Harry ;  and  even 
Robert  Burns  himself,  poor  man,  speaks  of  his  aiu  in  a  way 
that  pleases  me  little — but  it's  a  grand  thing  to  feel  that 
you're  standing  on  your  ain  feet,  and  no  leaning  on  a  prop 
that  may  be  drawn  away  itself  and  ruin  you.  I  am  not  the 
right  person  to  give  you  counsel  either,  Harry,  for  I  ken  little 
about  the  affairs  of  the  world,  how  they  work,  or  what's  the 
wisest  way — only  I'm  an  auld  man,  and  have  had  my  ain 
thoughts;  be  canny,  Harry,  with  the  siller." 

"  Yes,  yes,  no  fear,"  repeated  Harry,  a  little  impatiently; 
"  there  is  one  thing  I  thought  of  speaking  to  you  about,  nncle. 
They  tell  me  that  if  I  took  William  Hunter's  farm  into  my 
own  hands,  and  cultivated  it  in  the  scientific  way — I  could 
employ  a  man  to  manage  that,  you  know — I  might  double  its 
value.  Now  in  the  estate  of  Allenders,  there's  this  Mr.  Hun- 
ter's farm,  which  he  pays  two  hundred  pounds  for,  and  a  Mr. 
Sinclair  has  a  much  less  one  for  a  hundred  and  fift}^,  and  there's 
a  house  I'll  show  you  between  this  and  Stirling,  with  twenty 
acres  attached  to  it,  that  pays  me  fifty  pounds — and  the  rest 
of  the  property  is  made  up  of  some  houses  in  Stirling,  and  the 
half  of  the  village  down  here.  So  you  see  there  is  part  of  my 
income  dependent  on  the  chance  of  these  houses  letting  well. 
They  are  all  right  just  now,  but  one  can  never  depend  on  that, 
and  Mr.  Hunter's  lease  is  out.  He  does  not  wish  to  renew 
it  himself,  and  though  I  have  several  offers  for  the  farm,  I 
have  a  great  mind  to  keep  it  in  my  own  hands.  I  think  such 
an  occupation  as  that  is  the  very  thing  for  me  ;  but  then,  I've 
no  capital." 

'•  Ay  Harry,  ay  Harry,"  said  bis  uncle  with  eager  interest, 
"  are  you  thinking  already  about  occupation  for  the  leisure 
that  God  has  given  you  ?  I  like  that — it  gives  me  good  heart ; 
and,  Harry,  my  man,  just  look  at  that  grand  country.  I  ken 
no  pleasure  greater  than  working  on  it,  and  bringing  out  the 
wealth  that  is  home-born  and  in  the  soil,  better  than  your 
merchandising,  Harry,"  and  the  old  man  heartily  shook  his 
nephew's  hand. 

"  Yes,  uncle  ;  but  the  capital,"  said  Harry. 

'•I  thought  there  was  something  to  the  fore — something 
in  the  bank  to  begin  you  with?  ay,  yes — I  did  not  mind,  you 


HARRY   MUIR.  153 

have  spent  that  in  the  house  ;  hut,  Harry,  I  have  nothing 
myself,  but  two  hundred  pounds,  and  I  wanted,  if  it  were 
God's  will,  to  leave  some  bit  present  to  the  bairns  when  I  was 
gone ;  besides  two  hundred  pounds  could  do  little  for  you, 
Harry." 

'•Nothing  at  all,"  said  Harry  quickly;  "but  I  have  a 
plan  you  might  help  me  in.  How  much  money  will  Miss 
Jean  have,  uncle  ?  " 

•'  Jean  Calder? — na,  na,  Harry,"  said  the  old  man,  shak- 
ing his  head.  "  I  would  not  with  my  will,  speak  ill  or  judge 
unkindly  of  any  mortal,  but  charity — I  am  meaning  the  free 
heart  and  kind  thought — is  not  in  her.  Did  you  no  hear  the 
fight  we  had  to  get  your  papers  from  her?  No,  Harry;  I'm 
sorry  to  damp  you.  She  may  have  a  thousand  pounds,  may- 
be. As  much  as  that  I  warrant ;  but  you'll  make  nothing  of 
Miss  Jean." 

•'  A  thousand  pounds  !  My  plan,  uncle,  is  to  offer  her  bet- 
ter interest  than  she  could  get  elsewhere,"  said  Harry.  "  As 
for  her  kindness,  I  should  never  think  of  that ;  and  I  would 
not  ask  it.  because  I  was  her  brother's  grandson,  but  because 
I  could  offer  her  so  much  per  cent.  ;  that's  the  way.  Now  a 
thousand  pounds  from  Miss  Jean  would  make  these  lands 
bear  other  crops  than  this — look,  uncle." 

They  were  standing  at  the  corner  of  a  field  of  thin  and 
scanty  corn.  The  long  ears  bent  upon  the  breeze,  like  so 
many  tall  attenuated  striplings ;  and  their  chill  green  con- 
trasted unpleasantly  with  the  rich  brown  tint  which  began  to 
ripen  over  a  full,  rustling,  wholesome  field  on  the  other  side 
of  the  way. 

'•  It's  a  poor  crop,"  said  Uncle  Sandy,  meditatingly  ;  "  it's 
like  the  well  doings  of  a  cauld  heart — it  wants  the  good-will  to 
grow.  But  Jean  Calder,  Harry — Jean  Calder  help  any  man  ! 
Well,  Providence  may  soften  her  heart ;  but  it  is  not  in  her 
nature." 

'•  She  will  give  the  money  for  her  own  profit,"  said  Harry ; 
"  no  fear.  I  will  consult  Mr.  Lindsay,  and  we  can  offer  her 
good  interest.  Then  you  see,  uncle,  the  advantage  of  it  is, 
that  we  are  her  rightful  heirs,  and  she  is  a  very  old  woman 
now." 

"  Whisht,  Harry;  let  me  never  hear  the  like  of  this  again," 

said  his  uncle,  gravely  ;  "  you  are  a  young  man  now.  but  God 

may  keep  you  to  be  an  old  one.     Never  you  reckon  on  the 

ending  of  a  life,  that  it  is  in  God's  hand  to  spare  or  take  away, 

7* 


154  HARRY    MUIR. 

and  never  grudge  the  air  of  this  living  world — such  as  it  is, 
■we  aye  desire  to  breathe  it  lang  ourselves — to  one  that  He 
keeps  in  it  day  by  day.  nourishing  the  auld  worn-out  heart 
with  breath  and  motion,  for  good  ends  of  His  ain.  And, 
Harry,  this  money  is  the  woman's  life — I  could  not  think  of 
the  chance  of  its  perishing  without  pain  and  trouble,  for  it 
would  be  a  dreadful  loss  to  her — like  the  loss  of  a  bairn." 

'•  Well,  well,  uncle,  no  chance  of  its  being  lost,"  said  Har- 
ry, somewhat  fretfully ;  "  but  will  you  speak  to  her  when  you 
go  back  to  Ayr  ?  will  you  undertake  to  negociate  this  for  me  ? 
I  know  she  trusts  you." 

''  She  trusts  me  just  as  other  folk  do,  who  have  kent  me  tell 
few  lies  all  my  lifetime,"  said  Uncle  Sandy,  "  but  as  for  more 
than  this.  Harry,  Jean  Calder  trusts  no  man.  Well,  I'll  tell 
her — I  would  not  choose  the  office,  but  since  you  ask  me,  I'll 
tell  her,  Harry,  and  put  it  before  her  in  the  best  way  I  can. 
That  you  should  have  occupation,  is  a  good  thought ;  and  it's 
well  too  to  increase  your  substance — well,  my  man,  well ;  but 
you'll  need  to  be  eident,  and  keep  an  eye  yourself  on  every 
thing — and  even,  Harry,  you'll  need  to  learn." 

''  Oh,  yes,  I'll  learn,"  said  Harry,  "  but  the  money,  uncle, 
is  the  important  thing — there  will  be  little  difficulty  with  the 
rest." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  Have  more  regard  to  the  difficulties,  Harry — if  you  do 
so,  you'll  overcome  them  better ;  for  mind  ye,  siller  is  some- 
times maister,  but  he's  easier  to  subdue  and  put  your  foot 
upon,  than  such  things  as  heart,  and  mind,  and  conscience. 
Harry,  be  canny;  God  sometimes  appoints  us  a  hard  school 
when  we  are  slow  of  the  uptake  in  an  easy  one.  But  you 
need  not  gloom — auld  men  get  license  of  advising,  and  ye 
mind  how  the  cottar  '  mixes  a'  with  admonition  due.'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Harry,  laughing,  "  I  am  fated  to  have  coun- 
sellors— for  yonder  is  our  old  Dragon  who  has  no  objection  to 
give  me  the  benefit  of  his  experience  too." 

Alexander  Muir  slightly  erected  his  white  head  with  a 
single  throb  of  injured  feeling ;  for  with  all  his  natural  and 
gracious  humility,  he  did  not  choose  to  come  down  to  the  level 
of  the  poor  old  Dragon  of  AUenders  ;  but  when  a  considerable 
silence  followed,  and  Harry  walking  by  his  side  with  a  sullen 
gloom  contracting  the  lines  of  his  face,  made  violent  dashes 
now  and  then  at  groups  of  frightened  poppies,  or  at  the  lordly 
resistant  thistle,  the  old  man  was  the  first  to  speak — for  his 


HARRY    MUIR.  155 

anxious  friends  could  not  venture  to  offend  this  indulged  and 
wayward  Harry. 

"  Tlie  rough  bin*  thistle  spreading  wide 
Amang  the  bearded  bear — " 

said  the  old  man,  quietly ;  "  aye,  Harry,  my  man,  there  were 
fine  thoughts  in  that  grand  castaway  ;  and  a  sore  thing  it  is 
to  see  how  little  great  gifts  avail,  and  what  shipwrecks  folk 
may  make  with  them — if  this  were  any  thing  but  the  avenue 
and  porch  of  the  great  lifetime,  which  we  forget  so  easy  !  I've 
been  of  little  use  myself,  Harry,  in  my  day  and  generation — 
little  use  but  to  comfort  the  hearts  of  bairns,  and  give  them 
now  and  then  an  hour's  sunshine  and  pleasance — but  you're 
better  gifted  both  in  mind  and  estate  than  I  ever  was.  I  make 
ye  my  depute,  Harry,  to  do  better  service  to  God  and  man 
than  me." 

Oh,  gentle,  righteous  heart !  a  sudden  impulse  of  humility 
and  tenderness  came  upon  Harry  Muir's  impressible  spirit. 
Better  service  !  yet  this  old  man  seemed  to  have  lived  for  no 
other  conscious  end,  than  the  service  of  God  and  man. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

You  follow  the  young  prince  up  and  down  like  his  evi'  angel. 

King  Henkt  IV. 

"  Eh,  Harry,  here's  a  gentleman  coming,"  said  Violet,  as  she 
sat  on  the  floor  at  the  western  window  of  the  drawing-room 
with  a  book  on  her  lap.  Katie  Calder  kneeling  beside  her, 
was  looking  from  the  window,  and  making  a  superb  cat's  cra- 
dle on  her  fingers.  It  was  evening,  and  lessons  and  work 
alike  concluded,  the  children  chose  each  her  own  manner  of 
amusement,  until  tea  should  be  over,  and  leave  them  free  for 
their  out-door  ramble.  But  it  was  Katie's  observation  which 
discovered  the  gentleman,  though  Violet  was  by  no  means  in- 
curious, when  the  discovery  was  communicated  to  her. 

'•  Oh  !"  said  Harry,  turning  from  the  window  with  a  slight 
flush  on  his  face,  "  it's  Gibbie  Allenders — I  might  as  well  see 
him  alone — but  that  would  hurt  his  feelings.  Mind  he's  quite 
a  foolish  fellow." 


156  HARRY    MUIR. 

This  speech  was  addressed  to  no  one  in  particular,  but 
Harry  looked  annoyed  and  restless,  and  they  all  perceived  it. 
Gilbert  Allenders,  indeed,  was  a  kind  of  ghost  to  Harry  ;  for 
already  an  intimacy  which  disgusted  his  finer  raindj  but  which 
he  seemed  to  have  no  power  to  struggle  against,  had  sprung 
up  between  them,  and  Gilbert  never  failed  by  jibe  or  mali- 
cious allusion,  every  time  they  met,  to  remind  his  new  kinsman 
under  what  circumstances  they  first  saw  each  other.  Poor 
Harry  !  his  earliest  error  here  haunted  him  perpetually — he 
could  not  shake  its  consequences  off. 

"  Has  he  got  his  smoking-room  fitted  up  yet,  Mrs.  Muir 
Allenders,"  asked  Gilbert,  after  the  ceremonies  of  his  intro- 
duction— though  he  had  seen  Agnes  before — were  over.  "  Has 
Harry  not  begun  to  retreat  into  a  den  of  his  own  yet?  Ah, 
you  don't  know  how  we  young  fellows  do  in  these  respects — and 
really  Allenders  has  shown  so  much  good  taste  in  the  other 
parts  of  the  house,  that  I  am  quite  anxious  to  see  the  den — 
I've  seen  a  collection  of  pipes  in  a  German  student's  room, 
that  would  astonish  all  Scotland  to  match — Bursch  as  they 
call  themselves — horrid  language  that  German — but  I  never 
could  manage  the  coarse  gutturals." 

"  We  have  plenty  in  our  own  tongue."  said  Uncle  Sandy, 
quietly. 

"  Ah,  Scotch — gone  out  of  date.  Sir,  out  of  date — civilized 
people  forget  that  there  ever  was  such  a  jargon.  I  say,  Harry, 
wasn't  that  fine,  that  song  Simson  gave  us  the  first  night  I 
saw  you — magnificent — I  didn't  know  Allenders  then,  Miss 
Muir.  quite  a  chance  meeting,  was  it  not  extraordinary  ?  and 
I  think  the  first  night  he  was  in  Stirling  too — wasn't  it, 
Harry?" 

Harry  cast  a  guilty  angry  look  round  the  room  ;  Martha 
started  in  her  chair,  Agnes  glanced  up  uneasily  ;  and  Uncle 
Sandy  involuntarily  shook  his  head  ;  but  Rose,  happy  Kose, 
heard  nothing  of  it  all,  for  with  her  eyelids  drooping  in  a 
pleasant  heaviness,  she  was  dreaming  out  her  dream — and 
though  it  was  herself  whom  Gilbert  addressed  as  Miss  Muir, 
Rose  remained  peacefully  ignorant  of  all  he  said. 

"  And  there's  your  friend,  that  lawyer  fellow — your  busi- 
ness man,  I  suppose,  Allenders — he  wasn't  with  you ;  a  couple 
of  slow  chaps,  that  advocate  and  him,"  continued  the  sapient 
Mr.  Gilbert.  "  I  wouldn't  give  two-pence  for  such  society. 
If  they're  not  as  flat  as  the  canal  and  as  slow  as  a  heavy  boat, 
I'm  no  judge." 


HARRY    MUIR.  15*7 

"  It  happens  that  we  are  all  iudebted  to  Mr.  Charteris, 
and  that  he  is  a  friend  of  ours."  said  Martha  quickly,  "  I  be- 
lieve Harry  is  proud  to  call  him  so." 

••  And  I  am  sure  I  never  met  a  pleasanter  man,"  stole  in 
Agnes. 

And  the  eyes  of  Rose  gleamed  positive  lightning  upon 
the  redoubtable  Gilbert.  But  Rose,  though  she  ventured  upon 
a  little  short  prefatory  cough,  said  nothing. 

•' By  the-bye,"  said  Harry  hurriedly,  "  you  have  not  seen 
the  grounds,  Allenders  ;  come  and  give  me  your  opinion  of 
them"" 

"  Delighted  if  the  ladies  will  accompany  us,"  said  Mr.  Gil- 
bert ;  "  otherwise,  Harry,  I  am  much  obliged,  but  can't  be  de- 
tached from  such  fair  company."  And  Gilbert  returned  with  a 
glance  of  very  unequivocal  admiration,  the  indignant  flash  of 
Rose's  eye. 

A  pause  of  general  disconcertment  followed ;  irritated  and 
defiant,  Harry  tossed  about  the  books  upon  a  little  table  near 
him,  and  moodily  evaded  the  looks  which  sought  his  face. 
Mr.  Gilbert  Allenders,  the  only  person  present  at  ease,  pulled 
up  his  high  collar,  and  settled  his  long  chin  comfortably  upon 
.his  stock,  while  Agnes,  in  a  little  flutter  of  anxious  depreca- 
tion and  peace-making,  began  to  move  among  her  cups  and 
saucers,  and  to  prepare  tea. 

"  We  have  never  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  in  Stir- 
ling yet,  Miss  Muir,"  said  Gilbert,  turning  his  back  upon  Mar- 
tha, and  addressing  himself  with  great  demonstration  to  Rose. 
'•  Haven't  you  had  my  sisters  out,  calling  ?  I  thought  so. 
They're  nice  girls  enough,  considering  they've  been  always  in 
the  country.  Ah,  there's  nothing  like  a  season  or  two  in 
London  for  polishing  up  a  man." 

"  Have  you  been  in  Loudon,  Mr.  Allenders  ?"  asked  Ag- 
nes. 

'•  Yes,  three  or  four  years  ;  but  I'm  not  quite  a  good  speci- 
men," said  Mr.  Gilbert,  modestly,  "  for  I  was  at  work  all  the 
time,  studying  very  hard — oh  !  very  hard  ;  "  and  the  painful 
student  laughed  loudly  at  his  own  boast  of  industry.  "  I  say, 
Harry,  Leith  races  come  on  next  month — you'll  go  with  us, 
won't  you  ?  there's  Simson  and  Allan  and  me  ;  I  said  you 
would  be  sure  to  come." 

"  I  don't  care  a  straw  for  Leith  races,"  said  Harry,  rudely; 
but  notwithstanding  he  raised  his  head,  and  looked  by  no 
means  so  indifferent  as  he  spoke. 


158  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Care  !  who  said  anybody  cared  ?  "  answered  Gilbert : 
"  One  must  go  to  lots  of  places  one  doesn't  care  a  straw  for — 
it  becomes  a  duty  to  society.  I'll  undertake  to  say  you'll 
come,  Harry.  We  needn't  be  more  than  a  couple  of  days 
away,  and  the  ladies  won't  miss  you.  Permit  me,  Miss 
Muir." 

And  Gilbert,  politely  shutting  out  Martha  and  her  uncle 
from  sight  of  the  tea-table  with  his  long  loose  person  and  his 
easy  chair,  elaborately  waited  upon  Rose,  and  devoted  himself 
to  her  in  a  laborious  attempt  at  conversation ;  but  it  is  very 
hard  to  make  a  conversation  where  one  of  the  interlocutors 
says  only  "Yes"  and  '•  No,"  and  those  with  anything  but 
good  will ;  so  Gilbert  took  in  Agnes  as  a  partaker  of  his  at- 
tentions, and  talked  so  fine,  and  intimated  so  many  festivities 
to  come  when  the  summer  should  be  over,  that  the  little  wife 
grew  interested  in  spite  of  herself,  and  wondered  (for  Agnes 
had  been  very  "  strictly  "  brought  up)  whether  it  would  be 
proper  and  decorous  for  her,  a  matron  and  house-mother, 
twenty  years  old,  to  go  to  a  ball.  Martha,  behind  backs,  sat 
quietly  at  her  work,  and  said  nothing ;  while  Uncle  Sandy 
looked  on  with  a  slight  expression  of  displeasure  and  offence. 
The  old  man  had  a  sensitive  perception  of  ill  manners,  and  by 
no  means  liked  them  to  be  applied  to  himself  But  Martha 
was  not  offended  by  the  neglect  of  Gilbert  Allenders. 

After  tea,  Harry — who  had  remained  very  moody  and  ab- 
stracted, except  for  a  few  minutes  when  he,  too,  kindled  at 
those  descriptions  of  local  party-giving — proposed  a  walk  in 
the  grounds,  where  Agnes  willingly,  and  Kose  with  great  re- 
luctance, were  persuaded  to  accompany  them.  Rose  was  very 
innocent  of  flirtation — circumstances  had  guarded  her,  and 
kept  from  her  both  temptation  and  opportunity — so  that,  fully 
freighted  with  her  present  dreams,  there  could  have  been 
nothing  less  pleasant  to  Rose  than  to  walk  slowly  along  the 
mall,  under  the  over-arching  foliage,  leaning  upon  the  arm  of 
Mr.  Gilbert  Allenders.  And  Mr.  Gilbert  Allenders  was  bur- 
dened with  no  delicacy.  He  kept  steadily  behind  Harry  and 
Agnes,  he  lingered  in  quiet  places,  he  spoke  tender  sentimen- 
talities, he  quizzed  the  young  ladies  of  Stirling,  he  insinuated 
his  perfect  conviction  of  the  extreme  superiority  of  Miss  Rose 
Muir ;  but  no  amount  of  proof  could  have  persuaded  Gilbert 
of  a  tenth  part  of  the  disgust  and  dislike  with  which  Rose 
Muir  listened.  She  was  very  near  telling  him  so  several 
times,  and  begging  rather  to  hear  the  rude  jokes  than  the 


HARRY    MUIR.  159 

mawkish  sentiment.  But  Rose  was  shy,  and  her  safest  refuge 
was  in  silence. 

'•  What  has  Harr}^  to  do  with  such  a  man  as  that?  "  said 
Uncle  Sandy.  •'  Martha,  I  doubt  this  fortune  is  to  have  its 
dangers,  as  great  as  the  poverty." 

"  Ay,  uncle."  Martha  had  seen  enough,  after  a  week  at 
Allenders,  to  convince  her  of  that. 

"And  he's  taken  with  Rose."  said  the  old  man.  "You 
were  feared  for  Mr.  Charteris,  Martha ;  but  there's  more  rea- 
son here." 

"  No  reason,  uncle,  no  reason,"  was  the  quiet  answer. 
'•  He  may  harm  Harry,  but  Rose  is  very  safe." 

"  So  she  is,  it  is  true,"  said  the  uncle.  "  Ay,  and  the  man 
that  would  do  no  harm  to  Harry  might  harm  the  free  heart 
that  clings  by  nature  to  things  that  are  true  and  of  good  re- 
port. God  preserve  these  bairns  !  If  such  a  thing  were  hap- 
pening as  that  Rose  was  to  marry,  I  think,  Martha,  my  wo- 
man, you  should  come  cannily  hame  to  me." 

A  long  time  after,  when  both  of  them  had  relapsed  into 
thoughtful  silence,  Martha  answered : 

'•  May  be,  uncle — it  might  be  best ;  but  many  things  must 
come  and  go  between  this  time  and  that." 

'•  Harry  has  been  speaking  to  me  about  a  project  he  has," 
said  the  old  man,  '•  about  farming  and  borrowing  siller.  Has 
he  told  you,  Martha?" 

"  Ay,  uncle." 

"  And  you  think  well  of  it?  " 

"  An  occupation  is  always  good,"  said  Martha.  "  I  am 
doubtful  and  anxious  about  his  plans  for  getting  money,  but 
the  work  should  do  him  service  ;  and  Harry  has  begun  on  a 
great  scale  here,  uncle.  It  is  impossible  he  can  go  on  so  on 
his  present  income,  and  he  will  rather  increase  than  diminish 
— he  is  always  so  confident.  So  I  should  be  glad  to  think  he 
had  a  chance  of  improving  the  property.  I  thought  it  a  great 
fortune  a  month  ago.  It  does  not  look  so  inexhaustible 
now.'' 

"  Well,  as  the  money  would  come  to  you  at  any  rate  in  the 
ordinary  course  of  nature,"  said  the  old  man,  hesitating;  "and 
as  there  is  aye  the  land  to  fall  back  upon,  no  to  speak  of  my 
two  hundred  pounds,  I  think  I  may  venture  to  speak  to  Miss 
Jean  whenever  I  get  back  to  Ayr." 

"  Miss  Jean  !  Does  Harry  mean  to  ask  her  for  the  money  ?  " 
asked  Martha. 


160  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  What  think  ye  of  it  ?  She  is  far  from  a  likely  person, 
but  he  means  to  offer  her  higher  interest,  he  says,  than  any- 
body else.  What  think  ye  of  it,  Martha?  for  I  am  only 
doubtful  myself,"  said  the  old  man,  anxiously. 

But  Murtha  only  shook  her  head.  "  Do  it,  if  Harry  asks 
you,  uncle — do  it.  I  have  given  up  advising  now.  He  must 
be  left  alone." 

And  Harry,  to  his  great  wonder,  and  with  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  irritation  and  pleasure,  found  himself  left  alone — suf- 
fered, without  remonstrance  or  check,  to  follow  entirely  the 
counsel  of  his  own  will.  Good  little  Agnes  had  great  trust  in 
what  Harry  said  about  economy  and  prudence,  and  trium- 
phantly pointed  out  to  Martha  those  resolutions  of  sublime  virtue ' 
with  which  every  piece  of  practical  extravagance  was  prefaced  ; 
and  Martha  listened  with  a  grave  smile,  and  never  suggested 
doubt  to  the  simple  heart,  which,  for  itself,  saw  the  most  inex- 
haustible fortune  in  those  much  spoken  of  '•  rents,"  and  never 
dreaded  now  the  old  familiar  evils  of  poverty. 

Martha  descended  from  her  mother's  place  among  them. 
She  stood  aside,  as  she  felt  was  meet,  and  suffered  the  young 
husband  and  the  young  wife  to  take  their  lawful  place,  free  of 
all  interference  of  hers.  She  herself  now  was  only  guardian  to 
Rose  and  Violet,  domestic  helper  of  Mrs.  Agnes — Harry 
Muir's  quiet  elder  sister,. living  in  his  house,  a  member  of  his 
family ;  and  Martha's  natural  pride  took  a  secret  unconscious 
delight  in  bowing  itself  to  this  voluntary  humility.  She  soon 
began  to  be  neglected,  too,  for  the  strangers  who  visited  the 
young  household  did  not  feel  that  the  eldest  and  least  attrac- 
tive member  of  it  had  any  such  claim  on  their  attention  as  the 
pretty,  girlish  wife,  or  the  graceful  sister  Rose.  So  Martha 
dwelt  more  and  more  in  her  own  room,  always  working,  and 
watching  the  shadows  on  Demeyet  for  her  hourly  relaxation. 
These  shadows  going  and  coming,  and  the  soft  wind  rustling 
in  the  leaves,  and  the  water  continually  passing  by,  and  gleam- 
ing out  and  in  among  the  shadowing  foliage,  were  delights  to  her 
in  her  solitude.  So  were  the  children,  when  they  drew  her  out 
to  walk  between  them  by  the  waterside,  or  when  they  sat  at 
her  feet,  and  retailed  to  her  the  stories  of  Dragon  ;  and  so 
were  Harry's  good  spirits,  his  constant  occupation,  his  very  in- 
frequent lapses,  and  the  sunny  tone  and  atmosphere  with  which 
the  hopeful  house  was  filled.  Yet  Martha  was  anxious  for  Rose, 
whose  dreams — sweet  golden  mists — were  the  first  and  only 
thoughts  which  her  young  sister  had  never  ventured  to  whis- 


HARRY    MUIR.  161 

per  in  her  ear  ;  for  the  graver  woman  knew  by  true  instinct, 
though  they  had  never  visited  her  own  experience,  what  these 
youthful  dreamings  were,  and  always  gave  tenderly  and  quietly 
the  sympathy  which  the  young  moved  heart  came  to  seek  of 
her.  when  Rose  leaned  upon  her  shoulder  in  the  summer  nights, 
and  looked  at  the  star  twinkling  about  Demeyet,  and  sighed. 
With  her  arm  round  the  girl's  waist,  and  both  their  faces 
veiled  in  the  gloom,  Martha  would  sigh,  too,  and  tell  stories  of 
the  old  time  that  was  past — gentle  remembrances  of  the  father 
and  mother,  tales  of  Uncle  Sandy,  and  of  many  a  familiar  name 
in  Ayr.  And  Rose  smiled,  and  shed  gentle  tears,  and  asked 
questions  about  those  old  humble  romances,  those  dead  sor- 
rows, those  softened  and  tranquil  histories  of  common  life,  till 
the  dreams  in  her  heart  no  longer  oppressed  her  with  their 
shadowy  enchantment,  but  floated  away,  leaving  her  only  with 
a  deeper  apprehension  and  sympathy  ;  and  themselves  came 
back,  when  it  was  their  time,  freshened  as  with  the  evening 
dews.  Sometimes,  while  they  were  thus  seated  by  the  open 
window,  Martha  leaning  on  it,  and  Rose  on  her,  with  sweet 
sounds  ascending — rustling  of  trees  and  water,  far-off  child- 
voices  of  Violet  and  Katie,  Martha  would  feel  for  a  moment 
—  and  as  she  felt  it,  her  steady  hand  shook  a  little,  and  her 
voice  trembled — that  this  ready  memory  of  hers,  and  the  un- 
conscious link  which  drew  one  story  after  another  into  her 
remembrance,  and  from  her  lips,  was  a  mark  of  the  age  which 
began  gradually  to  draw  near.  Age  !  the  time  of  repose,  of 
quietness,  of  peace  ;  in  the  day-time,  when  such  a  thought 
struck  her,  the  fiery  heart  within  her  chafed  and  rebelled  :  but 
at  night  she  only  felt  her  eyelid  moisten,  and  her  heart  swell. 
Martha  was  wrong — age  was  not  near  ;  but  in  spite  of  forebod- 
ings and  anxiety,  this  was  a  time  of  peace — a  reposing  time 
wherein  strength  for  the  great  conflict  was  to  be  gathered. 


162  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

Three  thousand  ducats  for  three  months,  and 
Antonio  bound. 

Mkrchant  of  Venice. 

"  The  land  is  aye  guid  security,"  said  Alexander  Muir  doubt- 
fully to  himself,  as  he  slowly  brushed  his  Sabbath-day's  hat, 
and  glanced  from  the  window  to  where  one  or  two  of  his 
younger  visitors,  carrying  their  work  idly  in  their  hands, 
strayed  with  wistful  looks  past  his  strawberry  beds.  "  There 
are  hungry  e'en  among  these  bairns,  and  what  can  we  expect, 
poor  things  ?  I  must  promise  them  a  lawful  feast  in  the  after- 
noon, if  they'll  no  pick  any  berries  the  time  I'm  away ;  and 
there's  my  two  hundred  pounds  if  it  should  come  to  the  worst 
— but  two  hundred's  a  far  way  off  a  thousand  ;  and  the  house 
and  the  garden  are  worth  but  little  siller,  and  to  sell  them 
would  break  my  heart.  Well,  I  can  aye  see  what  Miss  Jean 
says ;  and  if  all  belonging  to  ye  have  done  hard  things  for  ye, 
in  their  day,  Harry,  my  man,  this  is  no  the  least," 

"  Bairns,"  continued  the  old  man  from  the  window,  "  do  ye 
see  yon  strawberries  yonder  among  the  leaves  ?  I'll  be  out  an 
hour — you  might  have  time  to  make  an  end  of  them  if  ye  liked 
— but  I  ken  there  is  far  mair  honour  among  ye  than  the  like 
of  that.  Maggie,  my  dear,  never  you  mind  the  rasps — they 
can  stand  steady  of  themsels,  and  need  no  prop.  Beatie,  come 
away  from  the  strawberries  like  a  good  bairn." 

"  It's  just  a  branch  that's  lying  ower  the  border — somebo- 
dy's sure  to  tramp  on't,"  exclaimed  Beatie. 

"  Never  you  mind,  my  woman,  so  it's  not  you  that  does  it," 
answered  the  old  man.  "  Enter  not  into  temptation — turn 
your  backs  upon  them  like  good  bairns  ;  and  if  I  see  there's 
good  work  done  when  I  come  back,  ye  shall  have  a  table  spread 
out,  and  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Tamson  to  send  in  some  cream,  and  ye 
shall  gather  the  berries  for  yoursels." 

One  or  two  smiling  faces  looked  up  and  nodded  thanks, 
and  there  was  a  very  general  quickening  of  needles ;  but 
Mary  Burness,  who  had  "  cast  out"  with  her  "  lad"  the  night 
before,  drooped  her  head  pathetically  and  sighed.  Poor  Mary, 
in  her  melancholy,  had  a  soul  above  strawberries  ! 


HARRY    MUIR.  163 

Having  delivered  this  his  last  message,  and  given  to  Jessie, 
his  little  handmaiden,  special  directions  to  prepare  for  this 
simple  entertainment,  Alexander  Muir  took  his  staff  in  his 
hand,  and  set  out  solemnly  to  call  upon  Miss  Jean. 

He  had  left  AUenders  only  the  previous  day,  and  had  left 
it  in  good  spirits,  giving  Harry  particular  charge  about  the 
*•  schooling"  of  Violet  and  Katie,  which  the  old  man  perceived 
ran  some  risk  of  being  neglected,  at  least  by  the  heads  of  the 
house.  But  Uncle  Sandy  had  great  hopes  of  Harry,  and  was 
much  interested  about  the  occupation  which  Harry  desired  for 
his  leisure.  Nevertheless,  the  old  man  walked  slowly  towards 
the  dwelling-place  of  Jean  Calder.  He  needed  to  be  a  brave 
man  who  should  venture  to  ask  money  from  her. 

"  Ou,  ay,  she's  aye  steering,"  said,  discontentedly,  the 
woman  who  occupied  the  lower  story  of  Miss  Jean's  house, 
"  weary  tak  her  !  I  have  had  nae  peace  o'  my  life  since  ye 
took  that  little  brat  Katie  away.  She>  fees  my  wee  lassie  wi' 
ten  shillings  in  the  year  to  kindle  her  fire,  and  do  a'  her  needs, 
and  expects  me  forbye  to  wash  her  claes  into  the  bargain,  as 
if  I  hadna  plenty  to  do  wi'  a  man,  and  a  muckle  laddie,  and  a' 
thae  weans  !  I  wadna  have  let  Aggie  gang,  but  just  I  thought 
five  shillings — though  it  didna  come  till  the  end  o'  the  half 
year — couldna  weel  come  amiss  where  there's  aye  sae  muckle 
to  do  wi't,  and  Aggie  was  just  to  gang  up  in  the  morning. 
Instead  of  that  it's  Aggie  here,  Aggie  there,  the  haill  day 
through  ;  and  she  never  as  muckle  as  says,  have  ye  a  mouth, 
— except  for  that  drap  parritch  in  the  morning,  and  sour  milk." 

"  Poor  woman  !  site  gets  more  ill  than  you,"  said  the  old 
man,  compassionately ;  "  but  Aggie  has  mother  and  father  to 
look  after  her,  and  see  she's  no  ill  used ;  whereas  little  Katie 
had  but  a  widow  woman  to  look  to,  who  couldna  have  another 
mouth  brought  hame  to  her ;  and  that  makes  a  great  differ- 
ence ;  so  now  111  go  up  the  stair  and  see  Miss  Jean." 

But  the  old  man's  heart  almost  failed  him,  as  he  paused  at 
the  half-opened  door.  He  had  no  opportunity  of  escape,  how- 
ever, for  the  sharp,  anxious,  miser-ear  had  heard  the  approach- 
ing footstep ;  and  the  shrill,  quivering  voice  of  Miss  Jean 
Calder  demanded  impatiently,  "  Wha's  there  ?  " 

'•  It's  me,"  said  Alexander  Muir,  meekly.  "  If  ye're  well 
enough,  and  your  lane,  I'll  come  in,  Miss  Jean." 

"  Aye,  come  in,  and  gie  us  the  news,"  answered  Miss  Jean, 
appearing  at  the  kitchen-door  in  a  thick  muslin  cap,  with  great 
flaunting  borders,  borrowed  from  Aggie's  indignant  mother. 


164  HARRY   MUIR. 

The  poor  lean  cheeks  looked  thinner  and  more  gaunt  than 
usual  within  the  wide  full  muslin  wings  which  flaunted  out 
from  them  on  either  side  ;  and  hot  as  this  July  day  was,  Miss 
Jean  had  been  sitting,  with  an  old  faded  woollen  shawl  over 
her  shoulders,  close  by  the  fire.  "  Ye  may  come  in,  Sandy, 
since  it's  you,  and  gie  us  the  news — ^just  inbye  here.  It's  nae 
guid  standing  on  ceremony  wi'  auld  friends  like  you.  Come 
inbye  to  the  fire,  Sandy  Muir,"  said  Miss  Jean,  graciously. 

The  old  man  entered  the  little  kitchen  with  some  trepida- 
tion, though  he  hailed  this  singular  courtesy  as  a  good  omen, 
and  was  emboldened  for  his  difiicult  errand. 

The  kitchen  was  small,  and  hot,  and  stifling,  for  the  July 
sun,  very  imperfectly  kept  out  by  a  torn  curtain  of  checked 
linen  and  a  broken  shutter,  accomplished  what  Miss  Jean's 
penurious  handful  of  fire  scarcely  could  have  done.  A  small 
round  deal  table  stood  before  the  fire-place  ;  opposite  to  it  was 
the  door  of  Miss  Jean's  -'concealed  bed,"  which  she  closed  in 
passing  :  while  between  the  fire-place  and  the  window  a  wooden 
"bunker,"  dirty  and  wounded,  filled  up  all  the  wall.  Miss 
Jean  herself  sat  by  the  fire-side  in  a  high  wooden  elbow-chair, 
furnished  with  one  or  two  loose  thin  cushions,  which  scarcely 
interposed  the  least  degree  of  softness  between  the  sharp  cor- 
ners of  the  chair,  and  the  sharper  corners  of  her  poor  worn, 
angular  frame.  A  little  black  teapot  stood  by  the  fire — for 
thrift  Miss  Jean  never  emptied  this  teapot ;  it  always  stood 
baking  there,  and  always  had  its  scanty  spoonful  of  new  tea 
added  to  the  accumulation  of  half-boiled  leaves,  till  it  would 
bear  no  further  addition,  and  compelled  a  reluctant  cleaning 
out. 

But  on  the  top  of  Miss  Jean's  bunker,  a  strange  contrast 
to  the  penurious  meanness  of  all  her  other  arrangements,  lay 
a  great  ham,  enveloped  in  greasy  paper,  and  roasting  slowly 
in  an  atmosphere  to  which  it  was  very  little  accustomed.  A 
certain  look  of  recognition  given  by  Uncle  Sandy  to  this  very 
respectable  edible,  and  an  evident  importance  with  which  he 
stood  endowed  in  the  eyes  of  Miss  »Jean,  explained  how  it 
came  here — a  peace-ofi"ering  from  Allenders  to  the  wealthy 
miser. 

'■  It  was  weel  dune  of  ye,  Sandy,  to  gar  them  mind  the 
auld  wife — very  weel  dune  ;  and  ane  canna  say  what  may 
come  o't.  I'm  no  meaning  in  siller,"  added  Miss  Jean,  hur- 
riedly. "  I  wadna  encourage  a  mercenary  spirit — ye  ken  that 
— but  in  guid  will.  Sandy — guid  will ;  and  guid  will's  a  grand 


HARRY    MUIR.  165 

thing  amang  relations ;  and  the  ham's  no  ill  eating.  They 
would  get  it  cheap  yonder  away  noo — far  cheaper  than  the 
like  of  you  or  me  ?  " 

"  You  see."  said  Uncle  Sandy — with  elaborate  skill,  as  he 
thought,  good  simple  heart,  "  ihey  would  have  nana  but  the 
very  finest,  it  being  for  you,  Miss  Jean,  and  so  I  cannot  un- 
dertake to  say  it  was  cheap — when  ye  get  the  best  of  anything, 
it's  seldom  to  call  cheap." 

'•  YeVe  a  grand  man  to  learn  me,  Sandy  Muir,"  said  Miss 
Jean,  with  a  laugh  of  derision.  "  Me,  that  have  been  a  care- 
ful woman  a'  my  days,  never  gieing  a  penny  mair  for  onything 
than  what  it  was  worth  to  me.  I've  heard  the  like  of  you, 
that  pretend  to  be  philosophers,  arguing  against  ane,  when 
ane  wanted  to  prig  down  a  thing  honestly,  that  what  was  ask- 
ed was  naething  mair  than  the  thing's  absolute  worth.  But 
what  have  I  to  do  wi'  absolute  worth?  What  is't  worth  to 
mc  ?  That's  my  wisdom,  Sandy  Muir  ;  and  to  hear  you.  that 
everybody  kens  has  just  had  as  little  discernment  as  a  bairn, 
and  been  imposed  on  by  the  haill  town,  telling  me  what's 
cheap  and  what's  dear !  I  reckon  if  Solomon  had  been  here, 
he  would  have  found  out  at  last  the  new  thing  that  he  took 
sic  bother  about,  honest  man." 

'•  Weel,  Miss  Jean,  I  may  have  been  imposed  on — I'll  no 
say,"  said  the  old  man,  looking  slightly  displeased.  "  Most 
folk  have,  one  time  or  another  ;  but  you're  no  asking  what 
kind  of  a  place  they've  gotten,  nor  about  the  bairns  themsels." 

"  Ye'll  think  yoursel  up  the  brae,  Sandy,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
"  uncle,  nae  less,  to  a  laird  ;  but  I'm  less  heeding,  I'm  thank- 
ful, of  the  vanities  of  this  warld.  Is't  a'  guid  brown  earth  the 
lad's  siller  comes  from,  or  is't  siller  in  the  bank,  or  what  is 
it  ?  But  you  needna  tell  me  about  their  grand  claes  and  their 
braw  house,  for  my  mind's  a  different  kind  of  mind  from 
that." 

'•  It's  a'  guid  brown  earth,  as  you  say,  Miss  Jean,"  said 
the  old  man,  eagerly  seizing  this  opening  to  begin  his  attack; 
"  that  is,  a'  but  some  houses ;  and  Harry,  like  a  thrifty  man, 
is  giving  his  attention  to  the  land,  and  says,  with  good  work, 
it  could  be  made  twice  as  profitable.  You  will  be  glad  to 
hear  of  that.  Miss  Jean." 

'•  I  would  be  glad  to  hear  it,  if  I  didna  ken  that  nae  profit 
in  this  world  would  ever  make  yon  wasteful  callant  thrifty," 
said  the  old  woman,  leaning  back  in  her  chair,  and  pressing 
the  great  borders  of  her  cap  close  to  her  face  with  two  dingy, 


166  HARRY    MUIR. 

shrivelled  hands.  "  Do  ye  think  I  dinna  ken  as  weel  as  you 
that  he's  gaen  and  gotten  a  grand  house,  and  deckit  out  yon 
bit  doll  o'  his  as  fine  in  ribbons  and  satins,  as  if  she  were  a 
countess  ?  Na,  Sandy,  I'll  no  gie  up  my  discrimination. 
Harry  Muir  will  come  to  want  yet,  or  you  may  ca'  me  a  lee." 

"  No  fears  of  Harry  Muir,"  said  the  old  man  warmly.  "  I 
have  myself,  as  I  was  just  telling  him,  two  hundred  pounds 
of  my  ain,  besides  the  garden  and  the  house,  and  I'll  come  to 
want  mysel',  I  am  well  assured  of  that,  before  want  touches 
Harry  Muir — but  that's  no  the  question  ;  you  see  he  could 
double  his  incoming  siller  in  the  year,  if  he  could  do  justice 
to  this  farm  ;  and  the  auld  farmer,  a  Mr.  Hunter,  a  very  decent 
sponsible  man,  acknowledged  the  same  thing  to  me,  but  said 
he  was  too  old  to  learn  himsel'." 

"  Twa  hundred  pounds  !  do  you  mean  to  say  that  yoiCre 
twa  hundred  pounds  afore  the  world,  Sandy  ?"  said  Miss  Jean. 
"  Man,  I  didna  think  you  had  sae  muckle  in  ye  ! — but  take 
you  care,  Sandy  Muir,  my  man — take  you  care  of  the  mam- 
mon of  unrighteousness — it's  a  fickle  thing  to  baud  it  sicker 
enough,  and  no  to  baud  it  ower  fast." 

And  as  she  spoke,  a  slight  twitch  passed  over  the  hard 
muscles  of  her  face  ;  yet  she  spoke  unconsciously,  and  had  not 
the  remotest  idea  that  she  condemned  herself. 

"And  what  would  be  your  counsel.  Miss  Jean?"  said 
Uncle  Sandy,  not  without  a  little  tremor.  "  It  would  cost 
siller  at  first,  you  see,  to  work  upon  this  farm  ;  but  no  doubt 
it's  sure  to  answer,  being  just  like  sowing  seed,  which  is  lost 
for  a  time,  but  in  spring  is  found  again  in  the  green  ear  and 
blade.  The  lad  is  anxious  to  be  well  advised,  and  no  begin 
without  good  consideration  ;  so  what  would  you  say  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  ye  what  I  would  say,  Sandy  Muir,"  said  the 
miser,  spreading  back  her  muslin  wings,  and  leaning  forward 
to  him,  with  them  projecting  from  her  face  on  either  side,  and 
her  dingy  hands  supporting  her  sharp  chin ;  "  I  would  say 
that  a  penny  saved  was  as  guid  as  tippence  made ;  and  that 
he  should  begin  now,  at  the  beginning  of  his  time,  and  lay  by 
and  spare,  and  when  he's  an  auld  man  like  you,  he'll  hae  a 
better  fortin  than  he'll  ever  get  out  of  the  land.  That's  my 
counsel,  and  that's  the  way  I've  done  mysel ;  and  if  he  makes 
as  guid  an  end  o'  his  life  as  I've  done  o'  mine,  I'll  let  you  ca' 
him  a  thrifty  man." 

"  We'll  nane  of  us  be  here  to  call  him  so."  said  Uncle 
Sandy,  "  we'll  baith  be  in  a  place  where  gathered  siller  is 


TTARRY    MUm.  16Y 

an  unthrifty  provision.  Wliiles  I  think  upon  that,  Miss 
Jean.'' 

"  Ou,  ay,  the  like  of  j'ou  are  aye  thinking  upon  that,"  said 
the  old  woman  with  fiery  eyes  ;  '*  but  I  tell  ye  I'm  nane  so 
sure  of  what  may  come  to  pass  ;  for  I've  seen  mony  a  hope- 
fuller  lad  than  Harry  Muir — ^^mony  a  ane  that  thought  in  their 
ain  mind  they  would  read  the  name  on  my  grave-head  twenty 
years  after  it  was  printed  there,  and  I've  pitten  my  fit  upon 
their  turf  for  a'  that.  I'm  no  wishing  the  lad  ill — I'm  wish- 
ing naebody  ill  that  doesna  meddle  wi'  me  ;  but  I've  seen  as 
unlikely  things — and  you'll  see  whether  I'm  no  a  sooth  prophet, 
Sandy  Muir." 

And  suddenly  withdrawing  her  hands,  and  nodding  her 
feeble  head  in  ghastly  complacency,  the  old  weird  woman 
leaiied  back  again  in  her  chair. 

'•  God  forbid  ye  should  !  God  forbid  it — and  spare,  and 
bless,  and  multiply  the  lad,  and  make  him  an  honour  and  a 
strength  in  the  land,  long  after  the  moss  is  on  my  headstane," 
said  xllexander  Muir,  with  solemn  earnestness.  "  And  God 
bless  the  young  bairns  and  the  hopeful,"  added  the  old  man, 
eagerly,  after  a  pause,  '•  and  them  from  evil  eye  that  grudges 
at  their  pleasaunce,  or  evil  foot  of  triumph  on  their  innocent 
graves  !  And  God  forgive  them  that  have  ill  thoughts  of  the 
sons  of  youth  that  are  His  heritage — blessings  on  their  bright 
heads,  ane  and  a' !  " 

And  when  he  paused,  trembling  with  earnest  indignant 
fervour,  the  old  man's  eye  fell  upon  Miss  Jean.  She  had 
risen  to  take  down  from  the  high  dusty  mantel-piece  a  coarse 
blue  woollen  stocking  which  she  had  been  knitting.  Now  she 
resumed  her  seat,  and  began  with  perfect  composure  to  take 
up  some  loops  whrch  her  unsteady  fingers  had  drawn  out  as 
she  took  down  the  stocking.  Either  she  had  not  listened  to 
Uncle  Sandy's  fervent  blessing,  or  was  not  disposed  to  except 
at  it — certainly  she  settled  down  in  her  chair  with  feeble  de- 
liberation, pulling  about  her  thin  cushions  peevishly,  and  with  no 
sign  or  token  about  her  of  emotion  of  any  kind.  Her  very  eye 
had  dulled  and  lost  its  fire,  and  you  saw  only  a  very  old,  miser- 
able, solitary  woman,  and  not  an  evil  spirit  incarnate  of  covet- 
ousness  and  malice,  as  she  had  looked  a  few  minutes  before. 

There  was  a  considerable  pause,  for  the  old  man  did  not 
find  it  easy  to  overcome  the  tremor  of  indignation  and  hon-t>r 
into  which  her  words  had  thrown  him,  and  he  now  had  ahuost 
resolved — but    for    a    lingering    unwillingness    to  disappoint 


168  HARllY    MUIR. 

Harry — to  say  nothing  of  his  special  mission.  At  last  the 
silence  was  broken  by  Miss  Jean  herself. 

"  111  times,  Sandy  Muir,  awfu'  ill  times ;  for  auld  folk, 
such  like  as  me  that  have  just  their  pickle  siller  and  nae- 
thing  mair,  nae  land  to  bear  fruit  nor  strong  arm  to  work  for 
them,  Sandy  ;  the  like  of  such  times  as  thir,  are  as  bad  as  the 
dear  years." 

Poor,  forlorn,  worn-out  life  !  unconsciously  to  herself,  the 
old  man's  blessing  on  the  young,  whose  strength  she  grudged 
and  envied,  had  touched  a  gentle  chord  in  her  withered  heart. 
Nothing  knew  she  of  what  softened  her,  but  for  the  moment 
she  was  softened. 

"  Are  ye  getting  little  interest  for  your  siller,  Miss  Jean  ?  " 
said  Uncle  Sandy,  immediately  roused. 

"  Little  !  ye  might  say  naething  ava,  and  no  be  far  wradig," 
answered  Miss  Jean,  briskly.  '•  A  puir  dirty  three  pund,  or 
twa  pund  ten,  for  a  guid  hunder.  Ye'll  be  getting  mair  for 
your  twa,  Sandy  Muir,  or  ye  wadna  look  sae  innocent !  Where 
is't,  man  ?  and  ye're  an  auld  sleekit  sneckdrawer,  after  a',  and 
ken  how  to  tak  care  o'  yoursel." 

"  I  ken  ane,  Miss  Jean,  would  gie  ye  five  pounds  for  every 
hundred,  and  mony  thanks  into  the  bargain,"  said  the  old 
man,  his  breath  coming  short  and  his  face  flushing  all  over 
with  anxious  haste;  "and  a  decent  lad  and  landed  security. 
I  might  have  told  you  sooner,  if  I  had  kent ;  but,  you  see,  I 
never  thought  it  would  answer  you." 

"  Answer  me  !  I  find  guid  siller  answer  me  better  than 
maist  things  that  folk  put  their  trust  in,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
laying  down  her  stocking,  and  lifting  up  the  frosty  cold  blue 
eyes,  which  again  twinkled  and  glimmered  with  eagerness,  to 
the  old  man's  face.  "  Ye  ken  ane  ;  and  does  he  gie  you  this 
muckle  for  your  twa  hunder  pounds?" 

'•  Na,  my  twa  hundred  is  out  of  my  ain  power,  in  the  Ayi 
bank ;  besides,  its  mair  siller  this  lad  wants — mine  would  do 
him  nae  service." 

"  This  lad  !  wha  does  the  auld  tricky  body  mean  ?  "  said 
Miss  Jean,  fixing  her  sharp  eyes  curiously  on  Uncle  Sandy,  •'  five 
pounds  in  the  hunder — ye're  meaning  he'll  gi'e  me  that  by  the 
year,  and  keep  a'  my  siller  where  I  never  can  lay  hand  on't 
again,  Sandy  Muir?" 

"  At  no  hand,"  said  the  old  man,  with  dignity,  "  the  best 
of  landed  security,  and  the  siller  aye  at  your  call,  and  the  in- 
terest punctual  to  a  day." 


FIARRY    MUIR.  169 

Miss  Jean's  mouth  watered  and  her  fingers  itched ;  it  was 
impossible  to  think  of  this  treasure  without  yearning  to  clutch 
it.  "  Ane  might  put  by  thretty  pounds  in  the  year,"  she  said 
musingly.  "  And  how  do  you  ca'  this  lad  when  ye  name  him, 
Sandy' Muir?" 

'•  I've  -seen  his  name  in  the  papers,"  said  the  old  man,  with 
mingled  exultation  and  anxiety,  "  and  there  it  stands,  '  Harry 
Muir  Allenders,  Esq.,  of  Allenders,'  but  at  hame  here  we  call 
him  your  nephew  and  mine,  Harry  Muir." 

Miss  Jean  uttered  a  passionate  cry,  rose  from  her  seat, 
and  flung  the  stocking  with  all  her  feeble  might  in  the  face  of 
her  visitor.  '*  Eh,  Sandy  Muir,  ye  auld,  leein,  artful,  design- 
ing villain  !  was't  no  enough  that  ye  came  ance  already  wi' 
your  lang-tongued  writer  and  reived  my  house  of  guid  papers 
that  were  worth  siller,  but  ye  would  come  again,  ye  smooth- 
spoken, white-headed  hypocrite,  to  seize  my  very  substance 
away  from  me,  and  take  bread  out  of  a  lone  woman's  mouth  to 
make  a  great  man  of  a  graceless  prodigal  ?  Ye  auld  sinner  ! 
ye  hard-hearted  thieving  spoiler,  that  I  should  say  so  !  how 
how  dare  ye  come  to  break  a  puir  auld  woman's  heart,  and 
tantalize  the  frail  life  out  of  me,  wi'  your  lees  and  deceits 
about  siller  1     Oh,  Sandy  Muir  ?  " 

And  Miss  Jean  threw  herself  down  once  more  in  her  hard 
chair,  and  began  to  wipe  the  corners  of  her  eyes ;  for  the  dis- 
appointment of  her  ruined  expectations  was  really  as  hard 
upon  her  miserable  soul  as  the  failing  of  fortune  or  fame  is  at 
any  time  to  its  eager  pursuer,  who  has  just  lifted  his  hand  to 
grasp  what  Fate  remorselessly  snatches  away. 

"  Ye'U  come  to  yoursel,  Miss  Jean — ye'll  come  to  your- 
sel,"  said  Uncle  Sandy  quietly,  as  he  laid  the  stocking  on 
the  table. 

And  after  another  burst  of  fierce  invective,  Miss  Jean  did 
come  to  herself. 

^'  And  he  had  to  send  you — he  couldna  get  a  decent  writer 
to  take  up  such  an  errand  for  him  !  but  I'll  see  him  come 
to  want,  as  a  waster  should,  and  he  need  nae  ask  charity  from 
me!" 

"  Nor  never  will,"  said  the  much-enduring  Uncle  Sandy; 
'■  and  Mr.  Macer.  whom  ye  ken  weel,  Misa  Jean,  for  the  first 
writer  in  this  haill  town,  is  instructed  on  the  subject.  Maybe 
that  may  satisfy  ye,  if  ye  dinna  believe  me  ;  but  it  might  be 
best  when  becomes  to  see  ye,  no  to  throw  your  wires  at  himV 
"  Weel,  Sandy  Muir,  ye're  no  such  an  ill  body  after  a'," 
8 


lYO  HARRY    MUIR. 

said  Miss  Jean,  with  a  shrill  laugh  ;  "  and  what  better  did  ye 
deserve,  ye  auld  sinner,  after  pitting  me  in  such  grand  hopes? 
But  if  there's  land  to  trust  to,  past  yon  prodigal  himself — and 
I  wouldna  gie  a  strae  in  the  fire  for  his  bond — and  your  ain 
undertaking,  and  your  twa  hundred  pounds,  Sandy  Muir ;  for 
ane  could  aye  easy  take  the  law  of  you,  being  close  at  hand, 
and  neighbour  like — I'll  no  say  but  I  might  hearken,  if  I  was 
secure  of  my  siller." 

And  with  this  gracious  deliverance,  to  himself  quite  unex- 
pected, Alexander  Muir  gladly  left  Miss  Jean  to  order  the 
cream  for  his  strawberries,  and  to  write  a  note  to  Harry.  The 
old  man  drew  a  long  breath,  and  wiped  his  brow  with  the  most 
grateful  sense  of  relief  when  he  once  more  stood  at  the  door 
of  his  own  garden,  and  saw  the  table  spread  upon  the  green, 
and  the  expectant  girls  only  waiting  the  permission  of  his  pre- 
sence to  plunge  down  among  the  green,  cool  strawberry  leaves, 
and  bring  forth  the  fragrant  fruit.  Good  Uncle  Sandy  looked 
round  upon  the  young  bright  heads  with  a  swelling  heart,  and 
said  "  blessings  on  them  "  once  more.  The  evil  thoughts  of 
Miss  Jean's  envious  and  unlovely  age  struck  the  old  man  as 
if  with  a  vague  presentiment  of  danger.  His  heart  stretched 
out  strong  protecting  arms  around  them.  ''  Yea,  children  are 
God's  heritage,"  he  said  to  himself  in  encouragement  and 
hope ;  and  Maggie,  and  Beenie,  and  Beatie  and  Mary,  all  felt 
a  more  delicate  tenderness  than  usual,  in  the  smiles  and  kind 
words  of  their  entertainer. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

I've  seen  the  morning,  with  gold  the  hills  adorning, 
And  loud  tempests  roaring  before  parting  day. 

Song. 

"  Success  to  Uncle  Sandy — he  has  done  it !  "  cried  Harry, 
with  exultation,  as  he  threw  Uncle  Sandy's  note,  which  he 
himself  had  just  glanced  at,  across  the  table  to  Rose.  "  Read 
it  aloud  for  the  general  edification,  Rosie.  My  uncle  has  al- 
ways some  good  counsel  for  us." 

And  Rose,  upon  whom  this  duty  generally  devolved,  put 
little  Harry  into  Martha's  lap,  and  read  the  letter. 


HARRY    MUIR.  l7l 

"  My  dear  Harry  : — I  have  just  come  home  from  seeing 
Miss  Jean ;  and  to  put  you  out  of  pain,  I  may  as  well  say  at 
once  that,  to  my  great  astonishment,  she  has  consented  like  a 
lamb ;  so  that  I  called  on  Mr.  Macer,  on  my  road  home,  and 
told  him  he  might  go  the  very  same  afternoon  and  conclude 
the  matter ;  and  I  suppose  you  will  get  the  siller  very  soon. 
But  Harry,  my  man,  mind  what  I  said  to  you,  and  take  good 
thought  and  competent  counsel  before  you  begin  to  lay  it  out, 
for  I  have  heard  folk  say  that  ye  may  sow  siller  broadcast  on 
land,  and  if  it's  no  wisely  done,  you  may  be  left  ne'er  a  hair  the 
better  after  all.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  learned  about  farming ; 
but  mind,  Harry,  and  take  good  advice  before  you  begin  to 
spend  this  siller. 

"  Your  propine  of  the  ham  was  very  well  taken,  and  did 
me  good  in  my  errand  ;  but  I  will  never  wish  you  an  errand 
like  it,  Harry.  Poor  old  desolate  woman,  it  makes  my  heart 
sore  to  see  her  strong  grip  of  the  world,  and  worse  than  that, 
her  grudge  at  you  and  the  like  of  you,  for  the  strength  and 
youth  which  Jean  Calder  had  in  her  day,  but  could  not  hoard 
like  siller.  I  cannot  get  this  out  of  my  head,  for  it  aye  re- 
joices me  myself  to  see  the  new  life  springing,  and  my  heart 
blesses  it ;  and  Jean  Calder,  if  years  are  anything,  should  be 
nearer  the  end  than  me. 

"  Ye  may  tell  Violet  and  Katie  that  the  bairns  here  are 
just  laying  the  table  in  the  garden,  and  that  we  are  all  to  get 
our  four  hours'  of  strawberries  and  cream.  So  being  a  little 
wearied  after  my  battle  with  Miss  Jean,  and  the  bairns  being 
clamorous  for  me  outbye,  and  besides  the  first  part  of  this  let- 
ter being  what  will  most  content  you^  Harry,  the  rest  of  the 
bairns  will  make  allowance  for  me  if  I  say  no  more  at  the 
present  writing.  "  Alexander  Muir." 

"  Well  done,  Uncle  Sandy  !  He  is  the  prince  of  plenipo- 
tentiaries !  "  said  the  triumphant  Harry,  who,  in  the  meantime, 
had  opened  another  letter.  And  here's  a  note  from  Charteris. 
He's  coming  to-day  to  pay  us  a  visit,  Agnes.  You  must  give 
him  the  best  room,  and  do  him  all  honour — but  for  him,  we 
might  never  have  seen  Allenders.  Does  anybody  know,  by  the 
bye.  what  first  set  Charteris  to  search  for  the  heir  ?  Do  you, 
Rosie?" 

"  Harry,  rae  I  " 

Rose  hastily  drew  little  Harry  upon  her  lap  again,  and 
looked  very  much  amazed  and  innocent ;  but  the  colour  rose 


172  HARRY    MUIR. 

over  her  face,  and  the  small  heir  of  Allenders  felt  her  brow 
burn  as  he  pulled  her  hair.  His  father  laughed,  and  pulled 
Rose's  dark  love  locks  too. 

"  Never  mind  then,  we  can  ask  himself;  but,  Rose,  we 
must  take  care  that  no  hostile  encounter  takes  place  between 
Charteris  and  Gibbie  Allenders — that  would  not  do,  you  know." 

A  sudden  frown  contracted  the  forehead  on  which  little 
Harry's  hand  grew  hotter  and  hotter.  The  very  name  of  Gil- 
bert Allenders  had  grown  a  bugbear  to  Rose,  for  he  had  al- 
ready paid  them  repeated  visits,  and  was  every  time  more  and 
more  demonstrative  of  his  devotion  to  herself. 

"  Now,  little  ones,  are  you  ready?  "  said  Harry.  "  Come, 
we  shall  drive  you  in  to  school  to-day;  and  who  else  will  go 
with  me  ?  you,  Agnes,  or  Rose?  We  will  stay  in  Stirling  till 
Charteris  comes,  and  bring  him  home." 

"  Not  me,"  said  Rose,  under  her  breath,  "  not  me."  She 
said  it  as  if  she  was  resisting  some  urgent  solicitations,  and 
very  resolute  was  the  heroic  Rose,  who  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances thought  a  drive  to  Stirling  a  very  pleasant  thing. 

'•  Nor  me  either,  Harry,  for  I  have  something  to  do,"  said 
Agnes ;  "  and  besides,  I  don't  want  to  be  an  hour  or  two  in 
Stirling.  Go  yourself,  and  take  the  children  ;  and  Dragon 
thinks,  Harry,  that  Violet's  pony  should  be  put  to  the  little 
old  gig  to  take  them  to  school,  for  they  cannot  walk  always, 
Dragon  says ;  and  it  won't  do  to  have  a  pillion,  as  Lettie  pro- 
posed." 

"  But,  Harry,  I  think  it  would,  and  Katie  thinks  it  would," 
said  Violet,  eagerly  ;  "  and  I  would  ride  behind  the  one  day, 
and  Katie  the  other.  And  what  way  could  we  no  do  as  well 
as  the  lady  in  young  Lochinvar  ?  " 

"  The  lady  in  young  Lochinvar  did  not  run  away  every 
day,  or  I  dare  say  even  she  might  have  preferred  a  gig,"  said 
Harry.  "  And  besides,  she  had  no  pillion.  I  think  we  must 
have  another  pony  for  Katie — that  will  be  the  best  plan." 

"  Eh,  Violet !  "  Little  Katie  Calder  looked  down  at  her 
printed  chintz  frock,  and  struggled  to  restrain  the  laugh  of 
delight  which  was  quite  irrestrainable ;  for  Katie  had  other 
frocks  now  much  grander  than  the  chintz  one,  and  the  little 
handmaiden  of  Miss  Jean  believed  devoutly  that  she  had 
come  to  live  in  fairy-land. 

Their  school  was  about  two  miles  off,  on  the  Stirling  road 
— a  famous  genteel  school  for  young  lady  boarders,  where  only 
these  two  little  strangers  were  admitted  as  day  scholars,  be- 


HAHKV    ML  IK.  173 

cause  "  Allenders  "  was  landlord  of  the  house.  Violet  and 
Katie  dined  with  the  young  ladies  at  Blaelodge,  besides 
having  lessons  with  them  ;  and  they  were  being  practically 
trained  into  the  ''manners"  for  which  good,  stiff,  kindly  Miss 
Int;;lis  was  renowned.  On  this  particular  morning  the  chil- 
dren ran  to  their  room  for  their  bonnets,  and  collected  their 
books  from  the  sunny  window  in  the  hall,  just  beside  the  door, 
wliich  they  had  chosen  for  their  study,  with  a  considerable 
flutter  of  excitement  ;  for  to  have  "  the  carriage "  stop  at 
Blaelodge.  and  Harry  himself,  the  most  dignified  of  mortal 
men  in  the  eyes  of  both,  seen  by  all  the  young  ladies  at  all  the 
windows  taking  care  of  them,  was  quite  an  overwhelming  piece 
of  gramleur. 

•'  He'll  take  off  his  hat  to  Miss  Inglis,"  said  Katie,  rever- 
entially, ••  I  saw  him  do  that  once,  Violet,  to  the  Minister's 
wife." 

'•  Eh.  I've  lost  my  grammar,"  said  Violet,  in  dismay. 
'•Katie,  do  you  mind  where  we  had  it  last?  And  there's 
Harry  ready  at  the  door." 

••  When  we  were  sitting  on  the  steps  at  Dragon's  room 
last  night,"  said  the  accurate  Katie,  "  yes,  I  ken,  and  I'll  run, 
Lettie." 

"  I'll  run  myself,"  said  Violet,  stoutly ;  and  there  imme- 
diately followed  a  race  across  the  lawn,  which  Lettie,  being 
most  impetuous,  threatened  at  first  to  win,  but  which  was 
eventually  carried  by  the  steadier  speed  of  Katie  Calder. 

The  Dragon  himself,  taking  long,  feeble,  tremulous  strides 
over  the  dewy  turf,  met  them  half  way,  carrying  the  lost 
grammar. 

'•  Ay,  I  kent  it  was  near  school  time,"  said  old  Adam  ; 
"  and  what  should  I  pit  my  fit  on,  the  first  thing  this  morning 
when  I  steppit  out  o'  my  ain  door,  but  this  braw  new  book  ? 
What  gars  ye  be  such  careless  monkeys?  And  it  might  just 
as  easy  have  tumbled  down  oflf  the  step  to  the  byre  door,  and 
had  the  brown  cow  Mailie  tramp  on't  instead  o'me — and  then 
ye  never  could  have  looked  at  it  again,  bairns.  I  wish  you 
would  just  mind  that  a'  thing  costs  siller." 

"Eh.  Dragon,  Harry  is  to  take  us  to  Blaelodge  in  the 
carriage."  said  Violet ;  '•  for  Harry  is  going  to  Stirling  to 
bring  home  Mr.  Charteris  to  stay  a  whole  week ;  and  you 
mind  Mr.  Charteris.  Dragon?" 

'•  That's  yon  birkie,""  said  the  old  man.  "  Is  he  coming 
to  be  married  upon  Miss  Rose  ?  " 


174  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  As  if  Rose  would  marry  anybody  !  "  said  Violet,  with 
disdain  ;  "  but,  eh,  Katie  !  I  dinna  mind  my  grammar." 

"  Because  you  made  him  tell  us  fairy  tales  last  night," 
said  the  sensijble  Katie  ;  "  but  I  had  my  grammar  learned 
first.     Come  away,  Lettie,  and  learn  it  on  the  road." 

"  And  I'll  maybe  daunder  as  far  as  Maidlin  Cross  and 
meet  ye,  bairns,  when  ye're  coming  hame,"  said  Dragon. 
'•  And  I  wadna  care,  if  Mr.  Hairy  gave  ye  the  auld  gig  to 
drive  ye  ower  every  morning  mysel,  and  sae  ye  may  tell 
him." 

But  Harry,  just  then,  had  discovered,  by  a  second  glance 
at  Cuthbert's  note,  that  he  did  not  expect  to  arrive  in  Stir- 
ling till  four  or  five  o'clock.  "  It  does  not  matter,  however," 
said  Harry,  ■'  I  have  something  to  do  in  Stirling,  and  an  hour 
or  two  is  not  of  much  importance.  Have  a  good  dinner  for 
us,  Agnes — perhaps  I  may  bring  out  somebody  else  with  me. 
Now,  little  ones,  jump  in — and  you  need  not  expect  us  till 
five." 

Agnes  stood  on  the  steps,  very  gay  and  blooming,  in  a 
morning  dress  which  she  would  have  thought  magnificent 
Sabbath-day's  apparel  six  months  ago ;  while  Rose,  behind 
her,  held  up  little  Harry  to  kiss  his  hand  to  his  young  father. 
The  window  of  the  dining-room,  where  they  had  breakfasted, 
was  open,  and  Martha  stood  beside  it  looking  out.  She  was 
chiding  herself,  as  she  found  that  all  those  peaceful  days  had 
not  yet  quite  obliterated  the  old  suspicious  anxiety  which 
trembled  to  see  Harry  depart  anywhere  alone  ;  and  uncon- 
sciously she  pulled  the  white  jasmine  flowers  which  clustered 
about  the  window,  and  felt  their  fragrance  sicken  her,  and 
threw  them  to  the  ground.  Many  a  time  after,  there  returned 
to  Martha's  heart  the  odour  of  those  jasmine  flowers. 

The  high  trees  gleaming  in  the  golden  sunshine,  the  dewy 
bits  of  shade,  and  then  the  broad  flush  of  tangible  light  into 
which  their  horse  dashed  at  such  an  exhilarating  pace,  made 
the  heart  of  Harry  bound  as  lightly  as  did  those  of  the  chil- 
dren by  his  side.  In  this  warm  and  kindly  good-humour 
Harry  even  hesitated  to  set  them  down  at  the  very  shady 
gate  of  Blaelodge,  which  the  sunshine  never  reached,  even  in 
midsummer,  till  its  latest  hour,  and  gave  five  minutes  to  con- 
sider the  practicability  of  carrying  them  with  him  to  Stirling  ; 
but  it  was  not  practicable — and  Harry  only  paused  to  lift 
them  out,  and  bid  them  hurry  home  at  night  to  see  the  stran- 
gers, before  proceeding  himself  on  his  farther  way.     The  in- 


HARRY    MUIR.  175 

fluence  of  the  bright  summer  day  entered  into  his  very  heart ; 
he  looked  to  his  right  hand,  where  lay  the  silver  coils  of  the 
Forth,  gleaming  over  fertile  fields  and  through  rich  foliage  ;  he 
looked  before  him,  when  his  young  groom  steadily  driving  on, 
cut  in  two  the  far-off  mass  of  Benledi,  and  lifted  his  towering 
head  over  the  mountain — an  unconscious  innocent  Titan — and 
Harry's  heart  ran  over  like  a  child's,  and  he  scarcely  could 
keep  himself  still  for  a  second,  but  whistled,  and  sang,  and 
talked  to  John,  till  John  thought  AUenders  the  merriest  and 
wittiest  gentleman  in  the  country  side ;  and  John  was  not 
much  mistaken. 

The  day  passed  with  the  children,  as  days  at  school  always 
pass.  Violet,  very  quick  and  very  ambitious,  resolved  not 
to  lose  the  silver  medal  inscribed  with  its  glorious  "  Dux," 
which  she  had  worn  for  a  whole  week,  managed  to  learn  her 
grammar  in  some  mysterious  magical  way  which  the  steady 
Katie  Calder  could  not  comprehend  ;  and  at  last,  just  as  Mar- 
tha at  home  began  to  superintend  the  toilette  which  Rose 
anxiously  desired  to  have  plainer  than  usual  to-day,  although 
in  spite  of  her,  herself  took  involuntary  pains  with  it,  Katie 
and  Violet  gathered  up  their  books,  and  left  Blaelodge. 
Their  road  was  the  highway — a  fine  one,  though  not  so  de- 
lightful to  Lettie  as  the  narrower  bye-lanes  about  AUenders — 
but  the  sun  was  sufficiently  low  to  leave  one  side  of  the  path, 
protected  by  high  hedges  and  a  fine  line  of  elm  trees,  very 
shady,  and  cool  and  pleasant.  So  they  walked  along  the  soft 
velvet  grass,  which  lined  their  road,  and  lingered  at  the  door 
of  the  one  wayside  cottage,  and  further  on  gave  loving  saluta- 
tion to  the  cottar's  cow,  feeding  among  the  sweet  deep  herb- 
age, all  spangled  with  wildfiowers,  and  cool  with  the  elm  tree's 
shadow,  which  made  her  milk  so  rich  and  fragrant,  and  her- 
self a  household  treasure  and  estate.  The  little  village  of 
Maidlin  lay  half  way  between  Blaelodge  and  AUenders,  a 
hamlet  of  rude  labourers'  houses,  untouched  by  the  hand  of 
improvement,  where  shrewish  hens  and  sunburnt  children 
swarmed  about  the  doors  continually.  There  had  been  once 
a  chapel  here  dedicated  to  the  pensive  Magdalen,  and  an  old 
stone  cross  still  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  village,  which — 
though  there  now  remained  no  vestige  of  the  chapel — retained 
the  Scotticised  name  of  the  Saint. 

'•  There's  Dragon  at  the  cross,"  said  Katie  Calder,  who  was 
skipping  on  in  advance,  leaving  Violet  absorbed  in  a  childish 
reverie  behind,  '•  and  he's  telling  a  story  to  a'  the  bairns." 


176  HARRY    MDIR. 

So  saying,  Katie,  who  did 'not  choose  to  lose  the  story, 
ran  forward  ;  while  Lettie,  only  half  awakened,  and  walking 
stright  on  in  an  unconscious,  abstracted  fashion  peculiar  to 
herself,  had  time  to  be  gradually  roused  before  she  joined  the 
little  group  which  encircled  the  Dragon  of  Allenders. 

He,  poor  old  man,  leaned  agahist  the  cross,  making  a  ges- 
ture now  and  then  with  those  strange  dangling  arms  of  his 
which  called  forth  a  bu.rst  of  laughter,  and  scattered  the  little 
crowd  around  him  for  a  moment,  only  to  gather  them  closer 
the  next.  He  was,  indeed,  telling  a  story — a  story  out  of  the 
Arabian  Nights,  which  Violet  herself  had  left  in  his  room. 

^'  Ay,  bairns,"  ye  see  I'm  just  ready,"  said  Dragon,  finish- 
ing Sin  bad  the  Sailor,  with  a  flourish  of  those  long,  disjoint- 
ed arms.  "  Ony  divert  does  to  pass  the  time  when  ane's 
waiting,  for  ye're  aff-puttiug  monkeys,  and  might  hae  been 
here  half  an  hour  since — no  to  say  there's  a  grand  dinner 
making  at  the  house,  and  as  many  flowers  pu'ed  as  would 
plenish  a  poor  man's  garden,  and  Miss  Rose  dressed  like  a 
fairy  in  a  white  gown,  and  ilka  ane  grander  than  anither. 
Whisht,  wee  laddies  !  do  ye  no  see  the  twa  missies  carrying 
their  ain  books  hame  frae  the  school,  and  I  maunna  stop  to 
tell  ony  mair  stories  to  you  " 

'■  Come  back  the  morn,  Dragon.  Dinna  eat  them,  Dragon, 
or  chain  them  up  in  your  den.  If  ye  do,  I'll  come  out  and 
fecht  yel  "  cried  the  'laddies'  of  Maidlin  Cross:  for  those 
sturdy  young  sons  of  the  soil,  in  two  distinct  factions,  gave 
their  fervent  admiration  to  Katie  and  Violet,  and  would  have 
been  but  too  happy  to  do  battle  for  them  on  any  feasible  occa- 
sion. 

"  Have  they  come.  Dragon?"  asked  Lettie.  "  Has  Harry 
and  Mr.  Charteris  come  ?  ' 

"  Nae  word  of  them,  nae  word  of  them,"  answered  the  Dra- 
gon. "  They're  in  at  Stirling  doing  their  ain  pleasure,  ye  may 
tak  my  word  for  that.  See,  bairns,  yondcr's  Geordie  Paxton, 
my  sister's  son,  coming  in  frae  the  field.  He's  very  sune  dune 
the  nicht.  Just  you  look  at  him  as  he  gangs  by,  and  see  what 
an  auld  failed  man  he  is,  aulder  like  than  me." 

Geordie,  laden  with  bis  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 
was  returning  home  with  those  heavy,  lengthened,  slow  strides 
which  almost  persuade  you  that  some  great  clod  drags  back 
the  heavy-weighted  footstep  of  the  rustic  labourer.  He  was  a 
man  of  fifty,  with  bent  shoulders  and  a  furrowed  face  ;  but 
though  their  old  attendant  advanced  to  him  at  a  pace  which 


HARRY    MUIR.  iTt 

Geordie's  slow  step  could  ill  have  emulated,  the  children,  glanc- 
ing up  at  the  hale,  brown,  careworn  face  of  the  family  father, 
and  contrasting  with  it  their  poor  old  Dragon's  ashy  cheeks 
and  wandering  eyes,  were  by  no  means  inclined  to  pronounce 
Geordie  as  old  as  his  uncle. 

'•  How's  a'  wi'  ye  the  day,  auld  man?"  said  the  slow-spo- 
ken labourer.  "  Aye  daundering  about  in  the  auld  way,  I  see. 
And  how  are  ye  liking  the  new  family,  uncle  ?" 

"  No  that  ill,"  answered  the  old  man.  "  I've  kent  waur,  to 
be  such  young  craturs ;  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  Geordie,  I 
feel  just  that  I  might  be  their  faither,  and  that  I'm  appointed 
to  take  care  o'  the  puir  things.  Thae's  twa  o'  the  bairns,  and 
our  Mr.  Hairy's  wean  is  weer  than  them  still." 

'•  He  has  a  muckle  family  in  his  hands,  puir  lad,"  said 
Geordie.  "  He'll  hae  mair  o'  his  ain  siller  than  the  Allenders 
lands,  it's  like,  or  he  ne'er  would  live  in  such  grandeur.  Your 
auld  man  never  tried  the  like  of  yon,  uncle." 

"  Ay,  but  Mr.  Hairy  has  a  grand  spirit,"  said  the  Dragon ; 
"  and  what  for  should  he  no  have  a'  thing  fine  about  him,  sic  a 
fine  young  lad  as  he  is  ?  See  yonder,  he's  coming  this  very 
minute  along  the  road." 

The  boys  were  still  grouped  in  a  ring  round  Maidlin  Cross  ; 
and  as  Dragon  spoke  a  shrill  cheer  hailed  the  advent  of  Har- 
ry's carriage  as  it  dashed  along  in  a  cloud  of  dust  towards 
Allenders.  Harry  himself  was  driving,  his  face  covdited  with 
smiles,  but  his  hands  holding  tight  by  the  reins,  and  himself 
in  a  state  of  not  very  comfortable  excitement,  at  the  unusual 
pace  of  the  respectable  horse,  which  he  had  chafed  into  excite- 
ment too.  In  the  carriage  was  Charteris,  looking  grave  and 
anxious,  Gilbert  Allenders,  and  another  ;  but  Harry  could 
only  nod,  and  Cuthbert  bend  over  the  side,  to  bow  and  wave 
his  hand  to  little  Violet  as  they  flew  past.  There  was  not 
really  any  danger,  for  Harry's  horse  understood  its  business 
much  better  than  its  driver  did ;  but  Harry  himself  was  con- 
siderably alarmed,  though  his  pride  would  not  permit  him 
to  deliver  up  the  reins  into  the  hands  of  John,  who  sat  on  the 
box  by  his  side. 

Violet  did  not  think  of  danger ;  but,  without  saying  a 
word  to  any  one,  and  indeed  with  a  perfect  inability  to  give  a 
reason,  she  sat  down  upon  the  roadside  grass,  and  cried.  Dra- 
gon, who  had  added  a  feeble  hurra  to  the  cheer  of  the  boys, 
bent  down  his  white  head  anxiously,  and  Katie  sat  by  her  side 
and  whispered,  "  Dinna  greet ! "  and  Geordie  looked  on  in  hard, 


1*78  HARRY    MUIR. 

observant  silence.  But  when  Lettie  rose  at  last,  and  dried 
her  eyes,  and  went  on,  neither  her  young  companion  nor  her 
old  one  could  glean  from  her  what  ailed  her.  "  Nothing — she 
did  not  know."     Poor  little  Lettie  !  she  did  not  know  indeed. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

Oh,  how  much  more  doth  beauty  beauteous  seem 
By  that  sweet  ornament  which  truth  doth  givel 
The  rose  looks  fair,  but  fairer  we  it  deem 
For  that  sweet  odour  which  doth  in  it  live. 

Shakspeake. 

Sullen  Demeyet  lies  mantled  over  with  the  sunshine  which 
steals  gradually  further  and  further  westward,  pencilling  out 
with  a  daring  touch  his  rugged  shoulders,  and  throwing  into 
deepest  shadow,  here  and  there,  an  abrupt  hollow  on  his  side. 
The  trees  of  Allenders  shadow  the  river  just  under  the  win- 
dows, but  on  either  side  the  sun  flashes  off  the  dazzling  water, 
as  if  it  had  a  resistant  power,  and  could  repel  the  rays  and 
throw  them  back  with  disdain  and  pride.  Just  now  the  little 
Stirling  steamer,  bound  for  Leith,  has  passed  those  overhanging 
trees,  wftle  up  upon  their  drooping  branches,  with  the  mo- 
mentary force  of  sea  surf,  comes  a  great  roll  of  foaming  water 
displaced  by  the  passing  vessel,  and  rushing  along  the  green 
river  banks  after  it,  like  an  insulted  water-god.  There  is  al- 
ways some  one  at  the  east  window  of  the  Allenders'  drawing- 
room  when  the  steamer  passes  up  or  down,  for  it  is  a  pleasant 
sight,  winding  hither  and  thither  through  the  bright  links  of 
Forth,  with  its  gay  passengers  and  rapid  motion,  and  gives  to 
the  broad  landscape  the  animation  which  it  needs. 

By  the  east  window  at  this  present  moment,  Rose,  and 
Rose  alone,  occupies  the  usual  place.  She  wears  a  white  gown, 
as  Dragon  said,  and  if  scarcely  self  possessed  enough  for  a 
fairy,  looks  prettier  and  more  delicate  than  usual,  and  has  a 
slight  tremor  upon  her,  which  she  can  neither  subdue  nor 
hide.  Agnes,  with  little  Harry  in  her  arms,  stands  on  the 
turret,  eagerly  looking  out  for  the  returning  carriage,  while 
Martha  at  a  lower  window  watches  the  same  road.  Fain 
would  Rose  take  her  place,  too,  on  the  breezy  turret ;  fain  be 
the  first  to  read  in  Harry's  eye  how  he  has  spent  these  hours 


HARRY    MUIR.  1*79 

in  Stirling  ;  but  no.  Harry  is  not  first  just  now  in  the  thoughts 
of  his  sister.  She  is  not  thinking  about  any  one,  Rose  would 
tell  you  indignantly  ;  but,  nevertheless,  she  sits  here  with  the 
most  obstinate  industry,  at  the  east  window  where  it  is  impos- 
sible to  obtain  the  least  glimpse  of  the  road,  and  trembles  a 
little,  and  drops  her  needle,  and  thinks  she  can  hear  every 
leaf  fall,  and  can  tell  when  a  fly  alights  on  the  gravel  walk,  so 
keen  is  her  ear  for  every  sound. 

And  now  there  comes  through  the  drawn  curtains  of  the 
west  window,  which  at  present  is  full  of  sunshine,  the  sound 
of  a  great  commotion ;  and  carriage-wheels  dash  over  the 
gravel,  and  Agnes  flies  down  stairs,  and  Harry  calls  loudly  to 
John,  who  has  sprung  from  his  perch  to  catch  the  excited 
horse  by  the  head,  and  calm  him  down,  that  the  gentlemen 
may  alight  in  safety.  The  colour  comes  and  goes  upon  Rose's 
cheek,  and  her  fingers  shake  so,  that  she  scarcely  can  hold  the 
needle,  but  she  sits  still ;  and  though  Harry's  laugh  immedi- 
ately after  rings  strangely  on  her  ear,  and  she  listens  with  sud- 
den anxiety  for  his  voice.  Rose  never  leaves  her  window — for 
another  voice  there  has  spoken  too. 

By  and  bye  a  sound  of  footsteps  and  voices  come  up  the 
stair,  and  Rose  suddenly  commanding  herself,  raises  her  head 
and  becomes  elaborately  calm  and  self-posessed.  Alas,  poor 
Rose  !  for  the  door  of  the  drawing  room  opens,  and  the  voices 
pause  without,  but  there  only  enters — Gilbert  Allenders. 

Grilbert  Allenders  and  a  stranger  like  himself — an  intimate 
of  his,  whom  he  has  persuaded  Harry  into  acquaintance  with. 
No  one  knows  that  Rose  is  here  ;  no  one  thinks  of  her,  indeed, 
but  the  guest  of  honour  who  is  being  conducted  to  his  own 
room,  and  who  does  not  at  all  admire  the  loud  greeting  in 
which  Mr.  Gilbert  Allenders  expresses  his  delight  at  finding 
her :  but  poor  Rose,  returning  those  greetings  with  intense 
pride,  disappointment  and  reserve,  could  almost  cry,  as  she 
finds  herself  compelled  to  be  amiable  to  Harry's  friend.  And 
now  she  has  time  to  grow  painfully  anxious  about  Harry  him- 
self, and  to  think  of  his  excited  voice  and  laughter,  and  to 
shiver  with  sudden  fear. 

While  Rose  sits  thus,  Martha,  with  so  still  a  step  that  you 
cannot  hear  her  enter,  comes  gliding  into  the  room  like  a  ghost. 
With  the  old  feverish  solicitude,  the  younger  sister  seeks  the 
elder's  eye ;  but  Rose  learns  nothing  from  the  unusual  gaiety 
of  Martha's  face.  Indeed  this  smile,  so  forced  and  extreme, 
and  the  light  tone  in  which  her  grave  sister  immediately  be- 


180  HARRY    MUIR. 

gins  to  speak — speaking  too  so  very  much  more  than  her  wont 
— terrifies  Rose.  The  strangers  see  nothing  more  than  a 
proper  animation,  and  Gilbert  Allenders  relaxes  and  conde- 
seenvls  to  notice  Martha;  but  Kose  steals  out  in  wonder  and 
terror,  fearing  she  knows  not  what. 

There  is  nothing  to  fear — nothing — say  it  again,  Rose, 
that  your  loving  anxious  heart  may  be  persuaded.  Harry 
stands  by  the  table  in  his  dressing-room,  unfolding  a  great 
bale  of  beautiful  silk  to  the  wondering  eyes  of  Agnes ;  and 
though  Harry  is  a  little  more  voluble  than  usual,  and  has  an 
unsteady  glimmer  in  his  eye,  and  a  continual  smile,  which  re- 
minds her  of  some  sad  home-comings  of  old,  there  is  in  reality 
nothing  here  to  make  any  one  unhappy.  Nothing — nothing — 
but  Hose's  heart  grows  sick  with  its  own  confused  quick  throbs 
as  she  lingers,  looking  in  at  the  door. 

'•  Come  along  here,  Rosie ;  look  what  I  have  been  getting 
a  lecture  for,"  cried  Harry,  looking  up  from  the  table.  "  It 
seems  that  Agnes  needs  no  more  gowns.  Come  here,  and  see 
if  there  is  anything  for  you." 

And  Rose,  who  was  by  no  means  above  the  usual  girlish 
vanities,  but  liked  to  see  pretty  things,  and  liked  to  wear  them, 
went  in  very  quickly — much  more  anxious  than  curious  it  is 
true,  but  nevertheless  owning  to  a  little  curiosity  as  well. 

*••  Oh.  Rose,  see  what  Harry  has  brought  me,"  said  Agnes, 
breathless  with  delight,  deprecation  and  fear  :  •'  such  a  splen- 
did silk,  white  and  blue  !  but  it's  too  grand,  Rose — do  you  not 
think  so  ?  and  this  quiet  coloured  one — it  is  quite  as  rich 
though — is  for  Martha  ;  and  here  is  yours — pink,  because  your 
hair  is  dark,  Harry  says." 

And  as  Agnes  spoke,  Harry  caught  up  the  radiant  pink 
silk  glistening  with  its  rich  brocaded  flowers,  and  threw  it  upon 
Rose,  covering  her  simple  muslin  gown.  To  say  that  Rose's 
first  impression  was  not  pleasure  would  be  untrue — or  that  she 
did  not  bestow  a  glance  of  affectionate  admiration  upon  the 
three  varieties  of  Harry's  choice.  But  the  eyes  that  sought 
them  for  a  moment  sought  again  with  a  lengthened  wistful 
gaze  bis  own  flushed  and  happy  face.  And  Harry  i^as  consid- 
erably excited — that  was  all — and  it  was  so  very  easy  to  ac- 
count for  that. 

'•  But  just  now,  you  know,  we  cannot  afford  it,"  said  Agnes, 
gathering  her  own  silk  into  folds,  which  she  arranged  scientifi- 
cally on  her  arm,  and  looking  at  it  with  her  head  on  one  side, 
as  she  held  it  in  different  lights.  "  I  never  saw  anything  so 
beautiful — it's  just  too  grand  ;  but  then  the  price,  Harry  !  " 


HARKY    MUIR.  181 

"  Don't  you  trouble  yourself  about  the  price,"  said  Harry, 
gaily.  "  You've  uothiug  to  do  but  to  be  pleased  with  tlicm  ; 
no.  nor  Martlia  either  ;  for  do  you  think,  after  securing  that 
old  wife's  siller,  that  I  may  not  indulge  m3'sclf  with  a  silk 
gown  or  two  ?  And  if  my  wife  and  my  sisters  won't  wear 
them,  why  I  can  only  wear  them  myself  There,  there's  some 
cobweb  muslin  stuff  in  the  parcel  for  the  two  of  you,  young 
ladies,  and  something  for  Lettie  and  her  friend,  and  some- 
thing for  our  heir  ;  but  away  with  you  now,  girls,  and  let  me 
dress,  and  say  nothing  about  the  money." 

Ah  !  hapless  Miss  Jean  Calder  !  if  but  you  could  have 
heard  and  seen  the  doings  of  this  zealous  agricultural  im- 
prover, whose  resolute  purpose  of  doubling  the  value  of  his 
newly-acquired  lands,  drew  your  beloved  "  siller  "  out  of  its 
safe  concealment,  what  a  wailing  banshee  shriek  had  rung 
then  through  these  sunny  rooms  of  Allenders !  Not  on 
strong  cattle  and  skilful  implements — not  on  the  choice  seed 
and  the  prepared  soil — but  on  the  vanities  you  have  scorned 
through  all  your  envious  lifetime — to  deck  the  fair  young 
forms,  whose  gladsome  breath  you  grudge  to  them — that 
your  gold,  the  beloved  of  your  heart,  should  be  squandered 
thus  !  Alas,  poor  miser  !  But  Miss  Jean  even  now  clutches 
her  mortgage  parchment,  with  the  glitter  of  malicious  power 
in  her  cold  blue  eyes.  Let  them  squander  who  will — she  has 
secured  herself. 

And  Martha,  even  in  her  heart,  does  not  say  "  Poor 
Harry  !  "  No,  Martha,  for  the  first  time,  tries  to  blind  her- 
self with  false  hope — tries  to  dismiss  all  her  old  anxious  love 
from  her  heart,  and  be  careless,  and  take  no  thought  for  the 
morxow.  She  has  determined  to  think  of  Harry's  errors  as 
other  people  think — to  call  them  exuberances,  follies  of  youth, 
and  to  smile  with  gentle  indulgence,  instead  of  sorrowing  in 
stern  despair.  For  Harry  is  a  man — head  of  a  household ; 
and  Martha  tries  to  endure  placidly — tries  to  persuade  her- 
self there  is  nothing  to  endure — knows  that  he  must  be  left 
now  to  himself,  to  make  his  own  fate.  To-day  she  sees,  as  no 
other  eye  can  see,  the  beginning  of  peril,  and  Harry's  excite- 
ment, excusable  though  it  may  be.  and  constantly  as  she  her- 
self excuses  it,  has  wrought  in  Martha  a  kindred  agitation. 
She  will  not  permit  herself  to  grieve  or  to  fear  ;  but  sad  is 
this  assumed  light-heartedness  which  Rose  trembles  to  see. 

Meanwhile  Rose  and  Agnes,  who  have  carried  off  Harry's 
gifts  between   them,  are   laughing  and  crying  together  over 


182  HARRY    MUIR. 

the  store.  It  may  be  imprudent — it  may  be  extravagant ; 
but  it  is  "  so  kind  of  Harry  ! "  He  is  so  anxious  to  give 
them  pleasure. 

And  Mr.  Charteris,  in  the  drawing-room,  talks  to  Martha 
with  some  abstraction,  and  coldly  withdraws  himself  from  the 
elegant  conversation  of  Mr.  Gilbert  Allenders.  Cuthbert 
cannot  understand  why  Rose  should  avoid  him  ;  and  he  feels 
the  blood  warm  at  his  heart  with  the  pride  to  which  neglect  is 
grievous.  But,  at  the  same  time,  he  is  troubled  and  depressed, 
and  looks  with  a  yearning  he  never  knew  before  at  the  closed 
door,  and  speaks  little,  lest  he  should  lose  the  sound  of  the 
approaching  footstep,  which  he  remembers  to  be  so  light.  The 
room  is  full  of  roses,  though  now  in  July  their  flush  of  beauty 
is  nearly  over.  Roses  red  and  white,  the  delicate  blush  and 
the  burning  purple ;  but  Cuthbert  would  throw  them  all  into 
the  river  joyfully  for  one  glimpse  of  his  Lady  Rose. 

This  love-fit  sits  strangely  on  the  grave  advocate — he  does 
not  quite  understand  how,  of  all  men  in  the  world,  it  should 
have  found  out  him — and  its  effect  is  singular.  It  moves 
him,  perhaps  by  the  power  of  those  circumstances  which  hang 
over  this  family  like  a  continual  cloud,  to  a  half-sorrowful 
tenderness  for  everything  young  and  gentle.  It  does  not 
occur  to  Cuthbert  to  inquire  why  his  constant  dream  is  to 
comfort,  to  console,  to  carry  away  the  Rose  of  Allenders,  and 
bear  her  tenderly  in  his  arms  out  of  sorrow  and  trial.  This 
is  the  aspect  under  \\hich  he  instinctively  views  the  conclusion 
of  his  growing  affection.  Sometimes,  indeed,  there  break 
upon  him  fair  visions  of  a  bride  in  the  sunshine,  a  home  glad- 
dened by  a  joyous,  youthful  voice,  and  smiles  like  the  morn- 
ing ;  but  the  usual  current  of  Cuthbert's  fancies  presents  to 
him  a  far-off  glimpse  of  happiness,  chastened  and  calmed  by 
suffering  ;  and  his  hope  is  to  deliver  her  out  of  some  indefinite 
gloom  and  evil,  to  deliver  and  carry  her  home  into  a  gentle 
rest. 

And  the  shadow  of  this  visionary  trouble  to  come,  throws 
a  tender  pathos  over  Rose  in  the  eyes  of  her  true  knight. 
His  stout  heart  melts  when  he  sees  her,  with  an  indescribable 
softening — as  if  he  extended  his  arms  involuntarily,  not  so 
much  to  enclose  her  for  his  own  content,  as  to  ward  off  unseen 
impending  dangers,  and  keep  her  safe  by  his  care.  Never- 
theless, Cuthbert  feels  his  cheek  burn  with  quick,  indignant 
anger,  and  starts  and  frowns  in  spite  of  himself,  when  he  per- 
ceives that  Gilbert  Allenders  gives  his  arm — again  with  con- 
.siderable  demonstration — to  the  shy,  reluctant  Rose. 


HARRY    MUIR.  183 

Harry  is  new  to  his  duties  as  host,  and  perhaps  his  atten- 
tion to  his  guests  is  slightly  urgent  and  old-fashioned  ;  but 
Harry  is  in  triumphant  spirits,  and  throws  his  radiant  good- 
humour  and  satisfaction  over  them  all  like  a  great  light.  Not 
without  ^  secret  misgiving  at  the  bottom  of  their  hearts,  Rose 
and  Agnes  make  strong  efforts  to  rise  to  Harry's  pitch,  if  it 
were  but  to  persuade  themselves  how  innocent  and  blameless 
is  Harry's  exhilaration ;  and  Martha  continues  to  smile  and 
speak  as  Rose  never  heard  her  speak  before.  It  is  quite  a  gay 
dinner  table. 

The  time  glides  on,  the  ladies  leave  the  dining-room  ;  but 
when  they  are  alone,  after  some  forced  efforts  to  keep  it  up, 
their  gaiety  flags,  and  one  after  another  glides  to  her  accus- 
tomed seat,  and  subsides  into  unbroken  silence.  It  is  true 
that  the  rejoicings  of  Violet  and  Katie  over  the  new  frocks 
which  Harry  has  not  failed  to  bring  for  them,  make  a  little 
episode,  and  sustain  the  animation  for  a  short  time — but  the 
sure  reaction  comes ;  and  now  they  sit  still,  one  professing  to 
read,  and  the  others  working,  but  all  casting  anxious  looks 
towards  the  door. 

By  and  bye  comes  laughter  and  voices  and  ringing  foot- 
steps up  the  stair,  but  only  Charteris  enters  the  drawing-room  ; 
for  Harry  and  his  other  friends  are  clin:bing  further  up  to  the 
turret,  where  he  has  fitted  up  a  little  "  den,"  as  Gilbert  AUen- 
ders  calls  it,  for  himself.  And  their  good  friend,  Mr.  Charte- 
ris, looks  very  grave :  they  think  Harry  has  lowered  himself 
in  Cuthbert's  eyes — they  think  this  seriousness  is  the  painful 
regret  with  which  a  strong  man  sees  a  weak  one  sink  under 
temptation  ;  and  their  hearts  flutter  within  them  with  restless 
anxiety,  and  they  listen  to  Harry's  laugh  in  the  distance  till  its 
echo  makes  them  sick.  While,  all  the  time,  Cuthbert  is  too 
much  interested  not  to  notice  how  uneasily  the  young  wife 
moves  upon  her  chair,  and  the  abstraction  from  which  Martha 
starts  with  a  dismal  resolution  to  be  gay  again.  Poor  Harry  ! 
But  Cuthbert  stands  behind  the  chair  of  Rose,  and  feels  that 
he  is  consoling  her — feels  that  he  is  occupying .  with  his  pre- 
sence something  of  the  space  which,  without  him,  might  have 
been  wholly  given  to  anxiety  and  fear. 

The  children  are  already  out  under  the  windows,  playing 
on  the  lawn ;  and,  at  Cuthbert's  suggestion,  Rose  and  Martha 
accompany  him  to  the  mall  on  the  river-side.  He  tells  them 
how  he  admired  this  when  he  came  first  with  Harry  to  see  Al- 
lenders,  and  that  he  often  fancies  how  they  must  enjoy  this 


184  HARRY    MUIR. 

verdant  cloister  when  he  is  shut  up  in  his  office  at  Edinburgh. 
The  sun  slants  in  through  the  great  oak  which  rounds  the  end 
of  the  mall,  and  just  touches  here  and  there  a  heavy  alder  leaf, 
and  lights  up  one  little  branch  upon  a  stately  elm,  with  tender 
golden  rays,  cool  and  dewy  ;  and  there  is  wind  enough  to  dis- 
turb the  long  willow  branches  and  ruffle  the  fleecy  Fining  of 
their  leaves.  A  narrow  strip  of  path,  sandy  and  yellow, 
breaks  the  soft  green  turf  which  slopes  down  to  the  water  on 
one  side,  and  on  the  other,  rich  with  flower-beds,  stretches  up 
in  a  slight  incline  to  the  walls  of  Allenders  ;  and  Cuthbert, 
with  Martha  on  his  arm,  walks  slowly,  silently,  looking  after 
the  white  figure  which  has  strayed  a  step  or  two  before. 
Slightly  turning  towards  them,  with  a  shy,  half-conscious  look 
backwards,  Rose  says  something  to  Martha  about  the  wild 
flowers  in  the  grass ;  and  Rose  guesses,  with  a  tremor,  that 
Cuthbert  has  had  visions  of  herself  under  the  shadow  of  these 
trees,  and  feels  that  his  eye  just  now  is  dwelling  upon  her,  and 
that  he  is  saying  words  to  her  in  his  heart.  But  the  charmed 
silence  lasts,  and  even  Martha,  looking  on,  has  not  the  heart 
to  break  its  spell. 

But  look  up  yonder  at  the  turret.  With  the  sun  glancing 
in  his  hair,  Harry  stands  in  the  little  battlemented  gallery, 
and  holds  up  a  glass  of  sparkling  wine,  and  bows  and  smiles, 
and  drinks  to  them.  Immediately  both  the  sisters  look  at 
Cuthbert ;  and  Cuthbert,  with  a  gaiety  he  does  not  feel,  takes 
ofi"  his  hat,  and  returns  the  salutation  with  playful  stateliness. 
His  gesture  cheers  them,  and  they  become  again  quite  tremu- 
lously glad,  when  he  calls  to  Harry  to  come  down,  and  Harry 
nods  in  assent,  and  disappears  upon  the  turret  stair.  It  is 
true  that  the  momentary  smile  flits  away  from  Cuthbert's  face, 
and  he  becomes  very  serious.  But  they  are  looking  for  Harry 
— they  do  not  see  the  deep  regret  and  gravity  which  clothes  the 
brow  of  his  friend,  who,  within  himself,  says  "  Poor  Harry  !  " 
with  a  heavy  sigh. 

And  Harry  is  now  more  excited  than  ever,  and  they  are 
constantly  calming  and  soothing  him  to  keep  him  within 
bounds — trying  to  be  gay  themselves  that  his  unreal  gaiety 
may  be  less  marked — are  carefully  avoiding  everything  which 
could  possibly  irritate  liis  feelings.  Poor  Harry  !  some  wist- 
ful eye  is  always  following  him,  some  solicitous  voice  con- 
stantly interposing  to  bring  down  to  the  ordinary  quietness 
and  moderation  his  unconscious  extravagance — eyes  which  are 
afraid  to   meet — afraid  to  confide  to  each  other,   even  by   a 


HARRY    MUIR.  185 

glance,  this  new  pain  wliich  Harry  has  brought  upon  them  ; 
for  hitherto  they  have  seen  principally  the  remorse  which  fol- 
lowed his  fall,  and  never  before  have  beheld  others  conscious, 
of  what  so  greatly  humiliated  themselves.  Now  the  sneer  and 
patronizing  forbearance  of  Gilbert  Allenders.  who  has  too 
cool  a  head  to  be  moved  as  Harry  is,  chafes  Martha  beyond 
endurance,  and  excites  the  gentle  little  Agnes  to  such  a  pitch 
of  anger,  that  her  hand  clenches  involuntarily,  and  she  could 
almost  strike  him  in  a  burst  of  weeping  petulance.  But  the 
long,  long  painful  hours  pass  away,  and  at  last  it  is  night. 

'•  It  is  nothing — it  is  nothing.  Nobody  thinks  anything 
of  this  but  us.  ^Ve  are  always  so  anxious  !  "  sobs  Agnes,  as 
she  wakes  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  and  weeps  ;  but  Martha, 
who  does  not  need  to  wake — who  has  never  slept — suffers  her 
heart  to  say  nothing,  but  only  prays,  and  tries  to  forget — tries 
to  think  of  anything  rather  than  Harry ;  and  cannot  ween  if 
she  should  try  for  ever. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

And  gentle  hands  the  breakfast-rite  begin, 
Then  the  bright  kettle  sings  its  matin  song, 
Then  fragrant  clouds  of  Mocha  and  Souchong 
Blend  as  they  rise. 

EOGEKS. 

"Who  is  that  out  there,  leading  the  horse  ?  "  asked  Agnes, 
with  some  anxiety. 

The  snowy  linen  and  bright  silver  and  china  of  the  break- 
fast-table sparkle  in  the  sunshine.  At  a  corner,  Violet  and 
Katie  sit  before  a  covered  tray,  hastily  taking  their  porridge  ; 
for  the  breakfast  is  much  later  than  usual  this  morning,  and 
the  children  are  in  great  haste,  lest  they  should  be  too  late  for 
school.  Rose  is  working  at  the  corner  window — the  new  win- 
dow, where  the  white  rose  bush  nods  up  to  her.  and  lays  a 
snowy  fragrant  present  of  buds  upon  the  window-ledge  :  but 
Martha  stands  silently,  as  she  stood  last  morning,  to  watch 
Harry  go  away,  and  again  pulls  with  unconscious  fingers  the 
jasmine  flowers. 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  repeated  Agnes. 

It  is  only  a  groom  leading  up  and  down,  on  the  broad  gra- 


186  HARRY    MUIK. 

vel  walk  at  the  other  side  of  the  lawn,  a  fine  horse,  stately  and 
impatient,  which  scorns  its  limited  space,  and  paws  the  gravel 
disdainfully,  and  arches  its  proud  neck  to  the  infinite  admira- 
tion of  the  Dragon  and  John,  who  stand  by  the  holly  hedge 
as  spectators.  Katie  and  Violet,  attracted  by  the  repetition 
of  Agnes's  question,  rush  from  the  window  to  the  door  to  as- 
certain ;  and  after  a  brief  conversation  with  Dragon,  Violet 
returns,  breathless,  with  the  information,  that  it  is  a  new  rid- 
ing-horse, sent  out  this  morning  from  Stirling,  where  Harry 
bought  it  yesterday  ;  but  that  Dragon  says  it  is  too  wild  a 
horse  for  any  but  a  bold  rider,  and  that  it  is  sure  to  throw  Mr. 
Hairy. 

"  Tell  Dragon  he's  an  old  fool,  and  that  he  had  better  think 
what  he  says,"  said  Harry  himself,  who  suddenly  made  his  ap- 
pearance as  Violet  spoke  ;  "  and  you  Lettie,  mind  your  own 
business  and  don't  be  so  ofiicious  in  reporting  what  everybody 
tells  you.  Why  don't  you  get  these  children  off  to  school, 
Agnes  1  Yes,  it's  my  horse.  I  hope  no  one  has  any  objec- 
tion. " 

Poor  Harry !  in  this  morning  light,  his  own  conscience  has 
weighty  objections,  and  upbraids  him  with  folly  and  extrava- 
gance. But  Harry  feels  miserable,  and  is  not  well — angry 
with  himself,  and  defiant  of  all  around  him — and  he  feels  him- 
self bound  in  honour  to  defend  his  horse. 

But  no  one  attacks  it ;  poor  little  Agnes  is  only  anxious 
and  deprecatory,  eager  to  smile  away  his  impatience,  and  cheer 
the  depression  which  she  very  well  knows  is  sure  to  follow ; 
while  Martha  still  stands  at  the  open  window,  without  ever 
turning  her  head,  and  vacantly  draws  the  long,  pliant  branch  of 
jasmine  through  her  fingers,  and  says  not  a  word. 

"  They  are  just  going  away,"  said  Agnes,  hastily  tying  on 
the  bonnet  which  Lettie  had  brought  in  her  hand  ;  "  they  have 
just  breakfasted,  you  see,  Harry.  We  are  rather  late  this 
morning  ;  and  Mr.  Charteris  is  not  down  stairs  yet." 

Harry  left  the  room  immediately,  and  went  out.  The  ar- 
rival of  this  horse  did  him  good — dispersing  the  clouds  of  his 
depression,  and  its  consequent  illJiumour — and  before  he  re- 
turned to  the  breakfast-room,  Harry  had  consoled  his  con- 
science by  a  resolution  to  begin  immediately  his  agricultural 
labours,  and  to  spend  no  more  of  Miss  Jean's  money,  except 
lawfully,  on  the  object  for  which  he  borrowed  it. 

When  he  re-entered  the  room  Cuthbert  was  there,  and 
Harry  had  to  smooth  his  brow  and  welcome  his  guest.     Agnes 


HARRY    MUIK.  187 

still  half  trembling,  and  growing  talkative  in  her  anxiety  to 
restore  ease  to  the  conversation,  found  herself,  to  her  great 
delight  and  astonishment,  seconded  by  Martha,  as  they  took 
their  places  round  the  table.  And  the  still  composure  of 
Martha's  manner  did  more  for  this  end,  than  the  tremulous 
eagerness  of  the  little  wife.  They  regained  the  every-day  tone, 
the  every-day  level  of  quietness  and  repose  ;  and  Agnes  began 
to  flatter  herself  that  nothing  unusual  had  happened  last  night 
after  all,  and  Harry  to  think  that  his  conscience  blamed  him 
unjustly  ;  only  the  sickness  in  Martha's  heart  lay  still,  uneased, 
and  undisturbed.  She  was  done  with  struggling — now  she 
had  only  to  wait  for  what  it  pleased  God  to  reveal. 

Charteris  was  to  stay  a  week,  and  numerous  excursions 
were  discussed  at  the  breakfast-table.  It  was  a  relief  to  them 
all,  to  have  these  things  to  speak  about ;  but  Cuthbert  exerted 
himself  to-day  to  gain  the  confidence  of  Harry,  and  did  in 
some  degree  gain  it.  They  spoke  together  of  the  projected 
improvements ;  and  though  Harry  said  with  a  little  braggado- 
cio that  it  was  "  an  old  rich  aunt "  who  had  given  him  the  ne- 
cessary capital,  he  was  tolerably  frank  about  his  intentions, 
and  very  f;lad  to  receive  introductions  to  some  agricultural 
authorities  whom  Cuthbert  knew.  They  walked  together  over 
the  farm  which  the  tenant  was  to  leave  at  Martinmas,  and 
together  commented  on  the  lean  and  scanty  crops,  which  spare- 
ly covered  the  half-cultured  soil.  It  was  a  fresh,  showery  day, 
enlivened  by  a  light  breeze,  which  brought  down  the  chiller 
breath  of  the  hills  over  the  green  lowland  country  ;  and  as 
this  wind  waved  about  his  hair,  and  blew  the  sparkling  rain 
against  his  cheeks,  Harry  struggled  under  the  uneasy  burden 
on  his  heart,  and  tried  to  throw  it  off,  and  let  it  vex  him  no 
more.  "  Forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind,"  he  muttered 
to  himself,  as  they  paused  on  a  little  eminence,  and  saw  the 
sun  touch  into  brilliant  light  a  thousand  rain-drops  among  the 
waving  corn,  and  on  the  roadside  trees — for  still  a  heavy  con- 
sciousness gnawed  at  his  heart,  and  compelled  him  to  try  some 
bargain  with  it  for  rest — and  Harry  gladly  turned  to  look  away 
from  the  past,  into  the  broad  life  which  lay  before  him,  as 
bright  as  this  sunny  strath,  though,  like  it,  dewed  with  tears  ; 
and  in  the  future  his  sanguine  eyes  again  saw  nothing  but 
hope. 

"  Forgetting  the  things  that  are  behind  !  "  Alas,  poor  Har- 
ry !  for  it  was  only  too  easy  to  forget. 

But  there  followed  a  few  days  of  cheerful  activity,  the  first 


188  HARRY    MUIR. 

of  which  dissipated  into  thin  air  the  last  remnant  of  Harry's 
remorseful  consciousness — for  Cuthbert  and  he  rode  togesher 
to  call  on  some  of  the  agricultural  authorities  before  mention- 
ed, and  take  counsel  with  them — not  always  sweet — concern- 
ing all  the  processes  of  the  warfare  which  should  subjugate 
this  stubborn  soil'  and  Harry  advertised  in  the  local  newspa- 
pers for  a  manager  to  take  charge  of  his  farming  operations, 
and  heard  of  one  before  his  advertisement  was  printed,  so  suit- 
able, as  it  seemed,  in  every  respect,  that  Harry,  fear- 
ing he  might  not  wait  till  Martinmas,  engaged  him  out  of 
hand  in  July,  that  no  one  else  might  seize  on  such  a  trea- 
sure. 

Not  only  so — but  Harry,  whose  pride  had  been  greatly 
hurt  by  Dragon's  implied  opinion  that  he  was  a  timid  rider, 
subdued  his  horse,  at  no  small  cost  to  his  own  nerves,  and 
rode  a  dozen  miles  to  a  cattle  show,  partly  in  self-assertion, 
partly  to  acquire  some  knowledge  of  "  the  beasts,"  which  his 
agricultural  instructors  discoursed  of  so  learnedly ;  but  Har- 
ry was  not  the  man  to  study  beasts,  and  his  long  ride  exhaust- 
ed him,  though  it  was  a  triumph.  He  had  settled  matters, 
however,  with  his  conscience,  which  now  rather  applauded  than 
condemned — and  Harry  was  content. 

Poor  Harry  !  but  when  Cuthbert's  week  was  out,  he  said 
those  words  with  eyes  that  glistened,  and  a  yearning  heart ; 
for  Harry  was  born  to  be  loved,  and  amid  all  his  faults,  and 
unconscious  selfishness  of  his  indulgences,  he  never  lost  this 
natural  portion. 

And  Cuthbert,  leaving  behind  him  a  bright,  cheerful,  hope- 
ful household,  as  ready  to  be  exhilarated  as  depressed,  had 
said  nothing  to  Rose — for  he  himself  had  little  yet  to  share 
with  any  one,  and  he  was  afraid  to  risk  his  affectionate  in- 
terest with  the  family  as  friend  and  counsellor,  even  for  the 
chance  of  attaining  the  nearer  and  still  more  affectionate  con- 
nexion for  which  he  hoped.  And  Cuthbert,  in  his  tenderness 
of  protection  and  succour,  exaggerated  the  difference  between 
his  age  and  hers  ;  he  only  thought  himself  likely  to  succeed  at 
all,  by  the  gentle  and  gradual  process  of  wooing,  which  might 
accustom  and  attach  her  to  him  before  she  was  aware.  So 
he  went  away  quietly,  leaving,  it  is  true,  many  tokens  which 
spoke  to  Rose  a  strange,  unusual  language,  showing  her  how 
much  space  she  occupied  in  the  heart  and  thoughts  of  this  man 
who,  of  all  men  she  had  ever  seen,  held  the  highest  place  in  hers. 
And  Rose  trembled  and  smiled  with  indefinite  delight  as  words 


HARRY    MUIR.  189 

and  looks  came  to  her  remembrance — looks  and  words  which 
Cuthbert  had  feared  would  alarm  and  startle  her,  but  which 
even  his  self-comujand  could  not  restrain.  There  is  a  charm 
in  this  guessed  and  implied  aflfection  which  perhaps  no  certain- 
ty has  ;  and  Rose,  wbose  thouglits  had  not  yet  taken  shape  or 
form,  whose  shy,  womanly  heart  shrank  even  from  believing  it- 
self beloved,  and  who  would  have  denied  the  belief  strenuous- 
ly, had  she  asked  herself  the  question  in  so  many  words— Kose 
suffered  a  bright  mist  of  reverie  to  float  about  her,  and  was 
thrilled  now  and  then  with  apprehensions  and  revelations, 
starting  out  half  distinct  for  a  moment,  and  anon  disappearing 
into  the  sunny  maze.  It  was  an  idle  mood,  and  sent  her 
straying  along  the  river-side  and  seated  her  for  hours  together 
under  the  oak,  with  vague  smiles  and  blushes  flitting  over  her 
face,  and  many  a  dream  in  her  heart ;  but  yet  her  needle  flew 
swiftly  too  under  this  mist,  and  she  could  be  very  well  con- 
tent with  silence,  for  the  long  indefinite  musings  of  her  ro- 
mance were  sweet  to  Rose. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A  good  old  man,  Sir ;  he  will  be  talking;  as  they  say,  when  the  age  is  in,  the  wit  is 
out — MccH  Ado  about  Nothing. 

"And,  Dragon,  you  mind  you  promised  the  very  first  day — 
but  you  never  told  us  yet  the  story  of  the  Lady's  Well." 

••  Have  you  ever  been  to  see  it,  bairns  1 "   asked  the  old 
man. 

»  The  children  were  seated  on  the  outside  stair,  which  led  to 
Dragon's  room.  Violet,  at  least,  sat  on  the  upper  step,  with  a 
book  on  her  lap,  and  a  total  disappearance  of  feet,  which  sug- 
gested a  suspicion  that  Lettie  patronized  the  Turkish  manner 
of  seating  herself  rather  than  the  English.  Katie,  who  had  a 
larger  share  of  boldness  than  her  friend,  was  jumping  from  the 
stair  to  the  ground,  mounting  a  step  higher  for  every  leap, 
while  Dragon  stood  on  the  threshold  of  his  own  door,  dangling 
his  thin  long  arms,  and  talking  to  them  with  his  usual  anima- 
tion. It  was  not  yet  the  hour  "  when  the  kye  come  hame," 
and  the  two  little  girls,  who  constantly  attended  Mysie  during 
the  process  of  milking,  were  waiting  for  her  appearance  ;  be- 
si(l(;y  that,  they  very  generally  chose  to  learn  their  lessons  on 


190  HARRY    MUIR. 

Dragon's  steps,  having  a  facility  of  interruption  here  which 
they  could  attain  to  in  no  other  place. 

"  Eh,  no — we've  never  been  there  !  "  cried  Katie  ;  "  and 
Mysie's  no  away  yet  to  bring  the  cow.  We've  plenty  time. 
Will  you  come,  Dragon,  and  let  us  see  it  now  ?  " 

"  I'm  no  heeding — if  you're  sure  you  would  like  to  gang," 
said  the  old  man.  "  But  then,  how  am  I  to  ken  that  you've 
got  a'  your  lessons  bye,  and  that  it's  lawful  to  take  ye  ?  for, 
you  see,  bairns  that  dinna  attend  to  their  learning,  have  nae 
claim  to  diversion  ;  and,  Missie,  you're  no  dune  wi'  your  book 
yet." 

"But  it's  just  grammar,  Dragon,"  said  Lettie,  disconsolate- 
ly ;  "  and  it's  no  use  trying  to  learn  it  till  I'm  to  say  it,  for  I 
aye  forget  till  it's  just  the  time.  Eh,  Katie,  you  couldna  jump 
off  here." 

"  Ye're  nane  o'  ye  gaun  to  jump  and  break  banes  at  my 
door.  I'll  no  hae  mysel  broclit  in  for  a  doctor's  bill,  like  the 
way  the  auld  maister  brocht  in  Eppie  for  the  muckle  bowl  she 
broke,"  said  Dragon.  "  Gang  quiet  down  the  steps,  bairns,  or 
I'll  no  let  you  come  here  ony  mair.  And  now,  you  see,  we'll 
take  this  road,  and  we'll  sune  be  at  the  Lady's  Well." 

The  road  was  a  solitary  lane,  looking  deep  and  cool  under 
the  shadow  of  high  thorn  hedges,  through  which  the  delicate 
white  convolvulus  had  darned  its  fairy  leaves  and  tendrils. 
Here  and  there  in  the  hedge-row,  an  old  low  oak,  long  shorn 
of  all  its  branches,  stood  alone  like  some  strong  ruin,  with  a 
growth  of  pliant  twigs,  and  young  foliage  waving  over  the 
bald  trunk  as  they  might  have  waved  over  a  moss  grown  wall. 
The  ruddy  clouds  of  the  sunset  were  rapidly  fading  from  the 
west,  and  already  a  meek  young  moon  glanced  shyly  over  the 
head  of  Demeyet ;  but  it  was  still  full  daylight,  and  the 
children  skipped  along  gaily  by  Dragon's  side,  keeping  an  eye 
on  the  field,  whence  Mailie,  the  brown  cow,  began  to  low  her 
impatient  summons  to  her  maid ;  but  the  maid  did  not  make 
her  appearance,  and  Violet  and  Katie  went  merrily  on  to  the 
Lady's  Well. 

The  Lady's  Well  lay  under  the  shadow  of  an  immense  old 
saugh  tree,  whose  whispering,  sighing  branches  were  continual- 
ly bending  down  with  a  kind  of  graceful,  melancholy  curiosity 
over  the  clear  spring  at  its  feet.  A  very  narrow  strip  of  path 
proved  that  there  still  came  occasional  visitors  to  the  little 
fountain ;  but  the  underwood  was  thick  and  tangled  round  it, 
and  the  long  bramble  branches,  on  which  already  early  ber- 
ries began  to  ripen,  formed   a  dangerous  network  of  defence. 


HARHV    MUIR.  ^  191 

closing  up  even  the  one  entrance,  which  gave  admittance  to 
the  small  circle  of  green  turf  surrounding  the  spring.  But 
there  were  signs  remaining  which  told  of  a  time  when  greater 
honour  was  paid  to  the  Lady's  Well ;  for  the  water  bubbled 
up  into  a  marble  basin,  and  a  small  carved  canopy  protected  it 
from  the  falling  leaves.  The  little  girls  scrambled  through 
the  brambles  with  eager  interest,  and  Katie  bent  curiously 
over  the  protecting  cradle,  while  Violet  sat  down  upon  a  stone, 
which  lay  beside  the  basin — a  hewn  stone,  slightly  hollowed 
out  in  the  centre,  as  if  it  had  been  used  as  a  seat  for  ages. 
The  stillness  of  the  place,  shut  in  on  every  side  by  the  sur- 
rounding wood,  and  the  silvery  tinkle  with  which  the  water 
escaped  from  the  hollowed  edge  of  the  basin,  and  passed  away 
in  a  slender  thread  over  the  bleached  pebbles  of  its  narrow 
channel — away  under  the  thick  concealing  brushwood,  disap- 
pearing as  completely  as  though  the  earth  had  swallowed  it 
again — affected  Lettie  with  strange  awe  ;  and  so  it  was  not 
her,  but  her  little  companion,  who  broke  the  dreamy  silence 
by  demanding  from  Dragon  the  story  he  had  promised. 

"  Ye  see,  bairns,"  said  Dragon,  seating  himself  on  the 
slender  trunk  of  a  young  willow,  cut  down  and  left  there  for 
dead,  but  which  was  already  throwing  out  its  unquenchable 
life  in  long  shoots  of  delicate  green,  "  there  was  ance  a  Laird 
of  AUenders,  and  he  had  ae  only  daughter,  and  her  name  was 
Violet.  But  they  never  ca'd  her  Lettie,  as  they  do  you, 
Missie — aye,  the  full  name,  like  as  if  she  had  been  a  flower  ; 
and  as  bonnie  as  a  flower  she  was,  by  a'  accounts,  and  made 
ballants  and  sangs  out  of  her  ain  head.  But,  bairns,  ye'll  be 
getting  your  death  of  cauld  in  this  dowie  place,  and  then  the 
blame's  sure  to  come  on  me." 

'•  But  the  lady.  Dragon — the  lady,"  exclaimed  Violet, 
whose  interest  had  been  greatly  quickened  by  the  lady's  name. 

'•  Weel,  as  I  was  saying,  there  was  not  anither  woman 
body  about  the  house  but  hersel,  and  some  servant  women — 
neither  mother,  nor  sister,  nor  friend  ;  and  the  auld  laird  liv- 
ing solitary,  and  the  young  ane  away  in  Flanders  at  the  wars; 
so  Leddy  Violet  ga'ed  wandering  about  the  water  and  the  hills, 
her  lane,  and  had  an  awfu'  wark  wi'  this  bit  spring,  and  caused 
bring  the  very  stane  you're  sitting  on,  Missie,"  (a  thrill  of 
strange  interest  passed  over  Lettie.)  •'  and  came  ilka  day  her- 
sel. and  drank  the  water  in  a  silver  cup,  and  sat  upon  the  seat, 
with  her  ain  thoughts  for  company,  till  the  spirits  that  were 
in  the  world  then,  began  to  take  note  of  her,  and  tell  ane  an- 
ither of  the  Lady  at  the  Well.      Some  say  she  began  to  get 


192  ,  HARRY    MUIR. 

wit  of  them  hersel,  and  saw  them  watching  her  out  of  the 
trees ;  but  ye  maunna  believe  that,  bairns,  for  it  has  nae  foun- 
dation— no  a  hair  of  proof,  to  satisfy  ony  man  that  inquired 
into  it." 

"  But  there  came  a  braw  gentleman  to  the  countryside  that 
had  a  grand  castle  some  way  in  the  Lennox,  and  great  friends 
among  the  Highland  chiefs  ;  and  ae  day,  when  he  was  gaun 
wandering  by  the  links  of  Forth,  he  heard  music  in  the  air, 
and  ga'ed  on  and  on,  following  after  it,  till  it  led  him  by  the 
very  road  we  came  this  nicht,  and  brought  him  to  where  Leddy 
Violet  was  sitting  by  the  well.  And  what  should  this  be  but 
a  sma'  fairy,  that  had  a  lad  hersel,  nae  doubt,  and  likit  Leddy 
Violet,  and  didna  ken  what  grand  company  guid  thoughts 
were,  but  aye  lamented  ower  the  bonnie  leddy,  her  lane  and 
solitary  in  the  wood.  Ane  canna  tell  now  what  kind  of  spirits 
thae  fairies  were,  but  nae  doubt  they  had  discrimination  ;  for 
it  even  turned  out  sae,  that  the  leddy  hersel  likit  the  braw 
lad's  company  better  than  her  ain  thoughts." 

"  Eh,  Dragon,  are  you  sure  there's  nae  fairies  now?"  asked 
Katie  Calder. 

"  He'll  tell  us  the  morn.  I  want  to  hear  about  the  Lady, 
Dragon  ?  "  said  the  eager  Violet. 

"  I  never  saw  ony,"  said  the  old  man,  mysteriously, 
"whiles  I've  heard  folk  say — but  I'll  no  tell  you  that,  or 
you'll  be  feared." 

"  What  is  it,  Dragon  ? "  exclaimed  both  the  children  in  a 
breath. 

"  They  say  in  moonlight  nights,  the  fairies  have  a  feast 
here  and  get  their  wine  out  of  the  well ;  and  there's  aye  some 
about  in  the  gloaming  spreading  the  tables ;  but  they'll  no 
meddle  wi'  ye,  if  you're  guid  bairns." 

Violet  shaded  her  eyes  with  her  hand,  and  looked  intently 
under  the  brushwood,  to  one  spot  of  bright  reflected  light 
upon  the  water.  She  did  not  speak,  but  with  a  shiver  of  fasci- 
nation and  awe  watched  the  slender  current  steal  away  under 
the  leaves,  and  devoutly  believed  that  she  had  seen  the  golden 
vessels  of  the  fairy  feast;  but  even  this  did  not  make  her 
forget  the  story,  and  again  she  repeated,  "  The  lady.  Dragon, 
the  lady." 

"  Weel,  bairns,  ye  see  it  was  the  spring  season  then,"  re- 
sumed Dragon,  '•  and  there  was  a  lang  summer  time  to  come 
— bonnie  days — we  never  have  the  like  of  them  now — when 
Leddy  Violet  was  constant  at  the  Well.     And  the  lad— they 


HARRY    MUIR.  193 

ca'ed  him  Sir  Harry — came  and  went,  and  lay  on  the  grass  at 
her  feet,  and  courted  her,  and  sang  to  her,  and  made  his 
reverence,  till  she  learned  to  think,  poor  lassie,  that  there 
wasna  a  man  like  liim  in  a'  the  world.  So  he  got  acquaint  at 
her  father's  house,  and  courted  the  old  laird  for  her,  and  was 
about  x\llenders  night  and  day ;  and  at  last  it  came  to  pass 
that  they  were  to  be  married. 

"  Now,  ye  see,  having  mair  to  do  now,  when  she  was  soon 
to  be  a  married  wife,  she  never  got  out  to  her  auld  wander- 
ings, but  sat  with  her  maids,  and  saw  them  make  gowns  of  silk 
and  satin  for  the  grand  bridal ;  and  this  very  same  sma'  feiry 
that  first  brought  the  gentleman  to  see  her,  had  cast  out  with 
her  ain  lad  by  this  time,  and  was  in  a  sorrowful  humour,  and 
could  not  keep  her  hand  from  aye  meddling  with  the  leddy's 
concerns.  So  what  did  she  do,  for  an  imp  of  mischief  as  she 
maun  hae  been,  but  flee  away  to  Sir  Harry's  ain  land,  and 
gather  I  kenna  how  mony  stories  of  him  ;  for  he  had  been  but 
a  wild  lad  in  his  young  days,  and  was  nae  better  than  he 
should  be  even  then.  And  I  canna  tell  ye,  bairns,  what  art 
magic  it  was  dune  by,  but  this  I  ken,  that  it  a'  came  to  Leddy 
Violet's  ain  ears — every  word  o't.  Now  ye  maun  mind,  that 
for  her  ain  sel,  she  was  like  a  saint ;  no  a  wee  new-born  bairn, 
nor  ane  of  the  like  of  you,  mair  innocent  than  her,  though  she 
was  a  woman  grown.  And  nae  suuer  had  she  heard  this,  than 
her  maid  that  was  wi'  her  was  aware  of  a  sound  like  the 
snapping  o'  a  string.  Na,  missie,  ye  couldna  guess  what  that 
was — it  was  a  sairer  thing  than  you  ever  heard  tell  o'  a'  your 
days — it  was  Leddy  Violet's  heart." 

Violet  had  fixed  her  dilating  melancholy  eyes,  in  which 
the  tears  were  fast  swelling,  upon  the  old  man's  face,  and  sat 
leaning  her  head  upon  her  hands,  bent  forward  with  the  deep- 
est attention ;  while  Katie,  arrested  suddenly  in  the  very  act 
of  balancing  herself  upon  the  little  canopy,  turned  a  look  of 
eager  interest  upon  him,  till  released  by  this  conclusion  she 
slipped  down,  and  placed  herself  very  quietly  on  the  fallen 
tree  by  his  side.  In  his  monotonous,  half-chaunting  voice, 
the  old  man  proceeded : 

"  The  wedding  was  put  off,  and  naebody  kent  what  for,  for 
Leddy  Violet  had  a  wise  heart,  and  wouldiia  send  him  away 
till  she  was  sure.  But  there  came  a  gray-bearded  man  to  the 
gate  in  the  night,  and  asked  to  see  her — what  he  said  nae  man 
kent ;  but  when  the  morning  broke,  Leddy  Violet  was  sitting 
at  her  ain  window,  gripping  her  Ijands  fast,  with  a  face  as 
9 


194  HARRY    MUIR. 

wan  as  the  dead,  and  the  bonnie  gold  hair  upon  her  head  a' 
covered  wi'  flakes  of  white,  like  snaw.  But  she  rose  up  and 
cried  upon  her  serving-woman,  and  put  on  her  wedding  gown. 
It  was  a'  white  and  glistening — the  auld  brocade  that  you 
read  about  in  books,  wrought  with  flowers,  and  grander  than 
you  ever  saw.  And  then  she  put  her  bride's  veil  on  her  head, 
and  went  away  with  a  slow,  stately  step  out  of  Allenders. 
The  serving-woman  in  fear  and  trembling  creepit  away  after 
her,  hiding  under  the  hedges  along  the  whole  road,  and  she 
mindit  often  that  the  leddy  didna  meet  a  single  living  person 
a'  the  way — for  she  came  straight  here  to  the  Lady's  Well." 

With  a  shiver  of  excitement  and  wonder  the  children  look- 
ed round  them,  and  drew  closer  to  Dragon ;  but  the  old  man 
went  steadily  on. 

"  It  was  just  half-licht,  and  the  woman  could  see  naething 
but  the  leddy,  with  her  grand  glistening  gown  and  her  veil 
about  her  head,  gaun  stately  alang  the  quiet  road.  When 
she  came  to  the  Well,  she  sat  down  upon  the  stane,  and  cross- 
ed her  hands  upon  her  breast,  and  droopit  her  head  ;  but  there 
came  a  noise  of  folk  upon  the  road  at  that  moment,  and  Leddy 
Violet's  woman  ran  to  see  what  it  was.  She  looked  east,  and 
she  looked  west,  but  there  wasna  so  much  as  a  shadow  on  the 
haill  way  ;  and  then  she  was  scared  and  feared,  and  ran  with- 
out a  stop  till  she  wan  hame. 

"  But  never  mortal  man  saw  Leddy  Violet  mair." 

"Eh,  Dragon!  where  did  she  go?"  cried  Katie  Calder 
under  her  breath ;  but  Violet  only  cast  timid  looks  round  her, 
and  almost  thought  she  could  perceive,  in  the  half-light  of 
this  other  gloaming,  glimmerings  of  the  white  garments  through 
the  close  foliage  of  the  trees. 

•'  I  tell  ye,  Missie,  nae  mortal  on  this  earth  kens  that," 
said  the  Dragon  of  Allenders  ;  "  but,  bairns,  ye'll  be  getting 
cauld — and  I'll  tell  ye  the  rest  at  hame." 

"  Oh,  Dragon,  tell  us  the  rest,"  pleaded  Violet ;  but  she 
looked  behind  her  and  before,  and  almost  believed  she  felt  the 
cold  hand  of  the  weird-lady  laid  upon  her  shoulder. 

"  They  sought  her  up  and  down  through  the  whole  country, 
but  the  wise  and  auld  among  them,  kent  full  well  that  they 
would  never  get  her  ;  and  from  that  day  to  this,  nae  man  has 
ever  seen  her,  nor  kens  if  she  is  dead,  and  away  to  heaven,  or 
if  she's  living  aye  a  charmed  life  in  the  fairy-land.  It's  my 
hope  she's  in  heaven  this  hundred  years — but  ane  can  never 
tell." 


HARRY    MUIR.  195 

"And,  Dragon,  -what  about  Sir  Harry?"  asked  Katie 
Calder,  timidly. 

"  Sir  Hairy  was  like  to  gang  distraught.  He  came  here 
and  sat  upon  that  stane,  day  after  day  for  a  whole  year  ;  and 
it  was  him  caused  bring  the  stane  bowl,  and  pit  the  carved 
wark  ower  the  spring ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  year  he  died. 

'•  That's  a'  the  story,  bairns ;  but,  Missie,  you  that's  fond 
of  ballants,  there's  ane  the  leddy  made,  and  that  her  woman 
heard  her  rhyming  ower  the  day  she  ga'ed  away.  I  have  been 
trying  to  mind  it  a'  this  time.  It  used  to  have  a  tune  in  the 
country-side.  I  could  ance  sing  it  grand  mysel — and  if  you'll 
be  awfu'  quiet,  I'll  try — 

"The  night  wind  rose  amang  the  hills, 

But  the  glen  was  lown  and  gray, 
"When  she  drew  her  veil  about  her  head 

And  went  upon  her  way. 
And  she  has  gathered  the  green  willow 

To  lay  on  the  threshold  stane, 
And  the  yew  and  the  rue  in  the  chalmer  of  state, 
That  the  house  might  be  kent  for  desolate 

When  she  was  lost  and  gane. 

"Oh!  father,  kindly  fare  ye  well. 

Good  may  your  last  days  be, 
And  God  send  your  son  were  hame  in  peace. 

Since  ye'll  nay  joy  in  me. 
And  though  ye  have  made  a  desert,  Harry, 

And  griefs  I  mayna  tell, 
Where  ance  dwelt  mony  a  pleasant  thing, 

Yet  Harry,  fare  ye  well ! 

"  But  wae  unto  the  man,  Harry, 

Within  this  house  shall  dwell, 
And  bears  the  name  that  breaks  my  heart. 

Though  I  say  fare  ye  well ! 
Tlie  night  wind  cries  among  the  trees, 

I  ken  what  words  they  be, 
And  I  maun  hence  to  bruik  your  pain. 
But  wae  to  him  that  bears  the  name 

Which  is  the  dead  of  me." 

It  was  nearly  dark  now,  and  the  cracked  and  quivering 
voice  of  age  rung  strangely  through  the  night.  Violet  felt 
the  leaves  rustle  about  her,  and  shrank  from  the  elfin  touch 
of  the  long  willow  shoots  which  thrust  themselves  into  her 
hand,  and  cast  furtive,  timid  glances  round,  trembling  lest  she 
should  see  the  stately  white  lady,  with  her  drooped  head  and 


196  HARRY    MUIR. 

her  bridal  veil,  sitting  under  the  trees.  Katie  was  bolder,  and 
understood  the  ballad  ;  but  Lettie's  attention,  constantly  drawn 
to  some  imaginary  stir  among  the  brushwood,  or  wandering 
reflection  on  the  water,  and  arrested  by  the  singular  ghostly 
effect  of  the  old  man's  shrill  voice  and  ashy  face,  failed  to 
make  anything  of  the  verse  which  ended  his  story.  The 
water  trickled  away  unseen  under  the  leaves — the  saugh  tree 
turned  out  its  fleecy  lining  to  the  night  wind,  which  began  to 
tremble  among  its  branches — mystic  flutterings  shook  the  long 
grass  and  limber  brambles — and  Lettie  sat  on  the  stone  seat 
where  Lady  Violet  sat  before  her,  and  trembled  to  her  very 
heart.  Little  Katie  Calder,  poking  about  into  the  dark 
mysterious  underwood,  felt  only  a  little  pleasant  thrill  of 
apprehension,  and  was  not  afraid — for  Katie  could  very  well 
trust  an  imagination  which  never  had  played  pranks  with  her ; 
but  an  awe  of  the  dark  road  home  possessed  Lettie.  She  was 
afraid  to  remain  in  this  weird  corner,  and  afraid  to  go  away. 

"  Mailie's  milkit  half  an  hour  since,"  said  Dragon,  getting 
up  with  his  usual  activity,  and  shaking  the  long  arms  which 
Violet  half  suspected  were  fastened  on  with  wires  ;  "  and  the 
haill  house  will  be  asteer  wondering  what's  come  of  us. 
Bairns,  we'll  get  our  licks  if  we  stay  langer — and  I'm  weary- 
ing for  my  parritch  mysel." 

But  Lettie  went  along  the  dark  lane,  under  the  high 
hedge,  which  might  have  concealed  armies  of  fairies,  and 
looked  behind  her  with  furtive  side-long  looks,  wistful  and 
afraid.  The  road  was  very  solitary  and  quiet,  but  now  and 
then  a  slow  footstep  advancing  out  of  the  darkness,  made  her 
heart  leap ;  and  even  when  she  had  reached  home,  Lettie  ran, 
with  unnecessary  haste,  up  the  dim  staircase,  and  was  glad 
when  bed-time  came,  and  she  could  lay  down  her  head  and  close 
her  eyes.  But  after  all,  it  was  quite  unsatisfactory  to  close 
her  eyes ;  and  as  the  room  was  very  dark,  Lettie  constantly 
opened  them  to  cast  anxious  glances  into  the  corners,  and 
listened  with  all  her  might  for  the  rustling  of  the  lady's 
silken  gown  ;  but  Lady  Violet  made  no  appearance  to  her 
little  relative,  except  in  dreams 


HARRY    MUIR.  197 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

"  What  strong  hand  can  hold  his  swift  foot  back  ?  " 

Shakspeake. 

The  window  is  up  in  Martha's  room,  and  the  sweet  morning 
air  comes  in  upon  you,  with  a  fresh  and  pleasant  abruptness, 
frank  and  simple  as  the  sudden  laughter  of  a  child.  The  stir 
of  early  day  is  upon  all  the  country  without — birds  twitter- 
ing among  the  wet  leaves,  which  themselves  glisten  and 
tremble  in  the  sun,  shaking  off  the  rain  which  fell  heavily 
through  the  night — and  far-off  footsteps  and  voices,  echoing 
over  the  fields,  of  rural  people  at  their  wholesome  toil.  Be- 
side the  window,  a  work-basket  stands  upon  a  little  table, 
and  you  will  wonder  when  you  see  it  full  of  the  embroidered 
muslin — the  delicate  "  opening  "  at  which  Martha  and  Kose 
were  wont  to  labour.  It  is  an  elaborate  collar  which  Martha 
holds  in  her  hand,  and  she  is  working  at  it  with  silent  speed, 
as  she  used  to  do.  You  would  fancy,  to  look  at  her  now,  that 
the  family  change  of  fortune  had  brought  little  ease  to  her. 

But  upon  a  sofa,  at  a  little  distance.  Rose,  with  a  fresh 
morning  face,  and  pretty  muslin  gown,  is  spreading  out 
Harry's  present — the  rich,  grave-coloured  silk,  which  has  been 
made  into  a  dress  for  Martha.  And  Martha  suffers  herself  to 
smile,  and  says  its  only  fault  is  that  it  is  too  good,  and  that 
the  bairns  will  not  know  her  when  she  has  it  on.  Katie 
Calder,  at  Rose's  side,  draws  out  the  folds  reverentially,  and 
says,  with  awe,  under  her  breath,  that  it  is  "  awfu'  bonnie ;  " 
but  Violet  sits  on  the  carpet  at  Martha's  feet,  and  thinks  about 
the  lady  at  the  well. 

For  this  is  a  holiday,  and  the  children  have  no  dread  of 
school  or  lessons  before  their  unembarrassed  eyes.  In  the 
next  room  sits  a  Stirling  dressmaker,  who  has  condescended 
to  come  out  to  Allenders,  to  make  up  into  gowns  the  glitter- 
ing silks  of  Harry's  present ;  and  Katie  has  already  spent  an 
hour  in  the  temporary  work-room,  appearing  now  and  then,  to 
report  the  shape  of  a  sleeve,  or  to  exhibit  a  specimen  of  some 
superlative  •'  trimming."     It  is  quite  a  jubilee  to  Katie. 

But  Violet,  in  an  Oriental  attitude,  like  a  small  sultana, 
sits  on  the  carpet,  and   stoops  both  head  and  shoulders  over 


19d  HARRY    MUIR. 

the  book  on  her  knee  ;  which  book,  for  lack  of  a  better,  hap- 
pens to  be  a  quaint  essay  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne's.  All  the 
light  literature  contained  in  the  old  Laird  of  AUenders'  book- 
shelves, has  been  devoured  long  ago,  and  Violet  concluded 
"  Hydrotaphia "  to  be  better  than  sermons — a  conclusion 
which  she  is  now  slightly  inclined  to  doubt.  But  Lettie  is  a 
little  dreamy  and  meditative  this  morning,  and  is  thinking  of 
Dragon's  story,  and  of  Lady  Violet's  ballad ;  wondering,  too, 
with  secret  excitement,  whether  she  could  make  a  ballad  her- 
self, and  repeating  over  and  over  again  a  single  ecstatic  verse 
about  the  moon,  of  her  own  composition,  which  Violet  thinks, 
with  a  thrill,  sounds  very  like  poetry.  When  Martha  stops 
to  thread  her  needle,  she  lays  her  hand  caressingly  upon 
Lettie's  head,  and  bids  her  sit  erect,  and  not  stoop  so  much  ; 
and  Lettie  is  almost  encouraged  to  repeat  this  verse  to  her, 
and  hear  whether  Martha  thinks  it  is  like  poetry — almost — 
but  she  is  never  quite  sufficiently  bold. 

The  door  opens  with  a  little  commotion,  and  Agnes,  with 
care  on  her  brow,  comes  hurriedly  in.  The  room  has  been  so 
perfectly  peaceful  that  you  feel  at  once  the  disturbing  ele- 
ment, when  the  young  wife  enters,  for  Agnes  is  excited,  im- 
patient, perturbed.  She  has  just  been  having  a  controversy 
with  Harry,  and  comes  here,  half  crying,  at  its  close. 

"He  says  he's  going  to  Edinburgh  to-day  with  Gilbert 
AUenders ;  I  hate  Gilbert  AUenders,"  said  the  little  wife,  in 
a  sudden  burst.  "  He  is  always  leading  Harry  away.  He  is 
going  to  the  races,  and  yet  he  says  he  doesn't  care  a  straw  for 
the  races.     Oh,  will  you  speak  to  him,  Martha?  " 

"  It  is  better  not.  Agnes :  he  will  take  his  own  way,"  said 
Martha.     "  It  is  best  I  should  not  interfere." 

"  He  says  we  all  heard  Gilbert  AUenders  ask  him,  and  that 
I  knew  well  enough  he  intended  to  go,  and  that  you  knew, 
Martha.  I  told  Harry  I  was  sure  you  did  not ;  and  what 
pleasure  will  he  have  at  the  races?  " 

••  I  wish  Gilbert  AUenders  were  in  America,  or  in  China — 
or  in  London,  if  he  likes  it  better,"  said  Rose,  quickly. 

"  That's  because  he  wants  to  fall  in  love  with  you,"  said 
Agnes,  with  a  light  laugh,  diverted  for  the  moment  by  the 
fervour  of  Rose's  good  wishes  for  the  fascinating  Gilbert ; 
"  but  I  am  sure  I  would  not  care  where  he  was,  if  he  was  only 
away  from  Harry ;  and  Harry  does  not  like  him  either.  Rose, 
we're  to  try  to  gather  a  big  basket  of  strawberries  for  Mrs. 
Charteris,  and  I  think,  maybe,  Martha,  if  Harry  goes  there^ 
that  he  may  get  no  skaith  in  Edinburgh." 


HARRY    MUIR.  199 

Rose  came  shyly  to  the  table.  "  If  it  had  only  been  a 
week  sooner  !  or  if  we  had  not  pulled  so  many  berries  on  Sat- 
urday !  " 

"  We  must  take  what  we  can  get,"  said  Agnes  ;  "  and  the 
basket  is  standing  below  the  walnut-tree.  Will  you  not  say 
anything  to  Harry,  Martha  ?  " 

•'  I  will  see  him  before  he  goes  away,"  said  Martha,  laying 
down  her  work. 

And  Violet  sprang  up  and  threw  "  Hydrotaphia  "  into  the 
work-basket,  and  called  upon  Katie  Calder,  who  just  then  ran 
out  of  the  work-room  with  a  little  paper  pattern  in  her  hand, 
of  a  bonnet  which  she  designed  manufacturing  for  a  great  doll, 
joint  property  of  herself  and  Lettie.  Lettie,  with  her  books 
and  her  reveries,  gave  but  a  very  inconstant  regard  to  this 
doll ;  it  was  often  thrown  for  a  week  together  upon  the  less 
capricious  attention  of  Katie  Calder. 

Harry  was  standing  by  the  dining-room  window,  with  a 
sprig  of  jasmine  in  his  breast,  looking  slightly  ruffled  and  im- 
patient, but  still  very  bright  and  animated;  and  as  Agnes 
passed  him,  carrying  the  basket,  he  patted  her  shoulder  play- 
fully, and  called  her  a  good  girl,  after  all.  Poor  little  Agnes ! 
she  was  not  sure  whether  it  was  best  to  laugh  or  cry. 

"  So  you  are  going,  Harry  ?  "  Martha  paused  beside  him, 
and  leaned  against  the  jasmine-covered  wall. 

"  Yes.  I  am  going.  Why,  Martha,  I  am  not  a  child  ;  why 
do  you  constantly  look  so  wistful  and  anxious  ?  It's  enough 
to  make  a  man  stay  away  altogether,"  said  Harry,  angrily. 

"  Is  it  ?  A  man,  I  suppose,  must  have  very  little  induce- 
ment to  stay  at  home,  when  that  is  enough  to  send  him  away," 
said  Martha,  coldly  ;  '•  but,  Harry,  your  friend  Gilbert  Allen- 
ders  annoys  Rose — could  you  not  restrain  him,  if  you  bring 
him  here  again  ?  " 

•'  Is  that  all  ?  "  said  Harry,  laughing.  '•  Gibbie's  not  such 
a  bad  fellow,  Martha ;  and  the  doctor  will  give  him  half  of  his 
practice,  and  he's  sure  to  be  steadier  in  a  year  or  two.  Well, 
I  should  not  like  Rose  to  have  anything  to  do  with  him,  that 
is  true  ;  but  still  he  may  have  his  chance  as  well  as  another. 
Have  you  anything  to  say  to  Charteris,  Martha?" 

'•  NothiMg  ;  but  you  will  go  there?  "  said  Martha,  eagerly. 

"  Oh  !  of  course — the  old  lady  would  not  be  pleased  ;  but 
then  I  can't  take  Allenders  there — if  it  was  only  on  account 
of  Rose  ;  "  and  Harry  laughed  again.  His  impatience  was 
wearing  away.    He  was  quite  good-humoured  and  light-hearted 


200  HARRY    MUIR. 

Meanwhile  the  light  glimmers  through  the  trees  upon 
Rose's  head,  bending  over  the  great  basket,  and  upon  the  wet 
leaves,  from  which  she  shakes  the  last  remaining  rain-drops, 
as  she  places  them  under  the  fragrant  fruit ;  and  it  is  singular 
now,  when  the  basket  is  full,  to  observe  how  careful  she  is 
in  choosing  those  leaves,  and  how  she  scatters  little  bits  of 
oak,  tender  brown  and  green,  and  spreads  cool  twigs  of  plane 
tree  over  the  strawberries,  and  sends  Violet  away  stealthily 
to  gather  white  jasmine  blossoms,  and  strew  them  on  the  fruit. 
Violet,  nothing  loth,  twists  a  long  bough  of  jasmine  round 
Rose's  dark  hair,  and  Katie  suggests  cabbage-leaves  to  cover 
up  the  basket ;  which  suggestion,  prosaic  as  it  is,  has  to  be 
carried  out,  and  so  the  basket  is  borne  away. 

The  day  after  to-morrow  Harry  promises  to  return,  and 
they  watch  him  go  away  with  doubt  and  pain  ;  but  he  himself 
is  very  cheerful,  and  speaks  so  confidently  of  what  "  I  "  will 
do,  and  evidently  feels  himself  so  dignified  and  independent  a 
man,  that  they  are  comforted.  '•  Everybody  else  in  Harry's 
station  does  the  same  thing,"  says  Agnes,  a  little  proudly,  and 
Martha  assents  with  an  averted  face,  and  they  separate  in  si- 
lence— the  one  to  occupy  herself  pleasantly  with  little  domes- 
tic cares,  the  other  to  take  up  her  work  again,  and  sit  at  her 
open  window,  and  pray  in  her  heart. 

But  Rose  has  wandered  to  the  mall,  and  sits  under  the  oak 
tree,  which  rounds  its  termination.  They  have  made  a  little 
seat  there  under  the  thick  foliage,  where  there  is  always  shade; 
and  Rose,  not  without  a  compunction  about  the  work  which 
she  should  be  doing,  either  to  help  Martha  or  the  dressmaker, 
resigns  herself  to  a  dream.  The  water  at  her  side  glides  on. 
She  can  see  it  floating  past  her,  through  the  loving  leaves 
which  droop  over  it,  and  dip  into  its  dazzling  tide ;  and  at  her 
other  hand,  the  spear  head  glitters  on  the  turret,  and  the  glis- 
tening lime-tree  throws  its  wet  boughs  abroad,  and  shakes 
them  in  the  face  of  the  brave  sun.  Then  there  are  rays  of 
sober  daylight  stealing  with  sidelong  quietness  through  the 
beeches  farther  down,  and  Violet  and  Katie  send  pleasant 
articulate  voices  into  the  universal  rustle,  which  the  soft  air 
waving  about  every  where,  calls  forth  from  the  water  and  the 
trees. 

Behind  her  is  a  corn-field,  the  greatest  rustler  of  all ;  and 
Rose  hears  a  heavy  foot  wading  through  the  scanty  grain, 
chance  sown  under  the  hedge.  But  just  then,  the  children 
with  their  unfailing  attendant,  Dragon,  have  come  close  upon 


HARRY    M.UIR.  201 

Rose  on  the  other  side  of  the  oak,  but  do  not  see  her,  though 
she  hears  all  they  say. 

There  is  a  pause  of  perfect  stillness  for  a  moment,  and 
Violet  sighs. 

"  Eh.  Dragon  ! "  said  Lettie,  "  I  wouldna  like  to  be  here  in 
the  dark." 

"  You  dinna  ken  how  bonnie  it  is  in  the  dark,  Missie,"  said 
the  old  man,  "  'specially  when  there's  stars  shining,  that  ye  can- 
na  tell  whether  they're  in  the  water  or  the  sky  ;  and  there  was 
ance  a  fairy  ring  somegate  about  the  steps  yonder,  and  I've 
heard  mony  a  ane  say  they  had  listened  lang  syne  to  sair 
groans  out  of  that  oak.  They  say  ane  o'  the  lairds  that  planted 
it  came  by  a  violent  death,  and  ye  can  aye  hear't  make  a  moan 
and  complaint,  at  the  season  of  the  year  when  he  was  killed  ; 
but  I  canna  answer  for  that  story — and  I  never  heard  the  tree 
say  a  word  mair  than  ony  itber  tree,  a'  my  days." 

"  But  listen.  Dragon,"  said  Lettie,  covering  her  eyes,  "  if 
it  was  dark.  I  could  think  it  was  the  rustling  of  Lady  Violet's 
gown." 

•'  And  it's  naething  but  the  corn,"  said  Dragon,  with  a  fee- 
ble laugh  ;  ''  naething  but  the  wind  in  the  corn,  and  your  ain 
fancy.  Ay,  but  there  is  anither  sound.  What  would  ye  say 
if  it  was  Mailie  in  among  Willie  Hunter's  corn  ?  " 

'•  I  would  get  a  wand,  and  drive  her  out  again.  I  would 
like,  Dragon — is  it  her  that's  in  the  corn  ?  "  cried  Katie  Cal- 
dcr. 

But  Dragon  looking  over  the  hedge,  already  bore  testi- 
mony that  it  was  not  the  brown  cow,  by  greeting  with  great 
surprise  his  nephew  Geordie. 

"  I  was  just  coming  in  bye  to  say  a  word  to  Mysie,"  said 
the  gruff  voice  of  the  labouring  man.  "  Her  mother's  ill  yon- 
der, and  ane  o'  the  weans  has  a  fever  and  the  ither  a  hoast ;  be 
a  decent  body  for  ance,  uncle,  and  cry  her  out  to  me — for  I 
want  to  tell  her  she's  no  to  come  hame  at  no  hand,  on  account 
of  the  bairns  at  the  house." 

'•  I'll  rin,"  said  the  active  little  Katie  Calder. 

And  Katie  ran  away  through  the  trees,  without  waiting 
for  permission. 

'•  I  passed  Allenders  in  his  carriage  the  noo,"  said  Geordie. 
"  He'll  hae  siller  o'  his  ain.  I  reckon,  mair  than  the  lands  ?  for 
it  would  take  a  grand  fortune  to  keep  up  a'  yon." 

'•  Ay,  he's  a  fine  lad,  Mr.  Hairy,"  said  the  old  man,  "  and 
they're  a  real  biddable  family,  and  dinna  scorn  guid  advice 
9* 


202*  HARRY    MUIR. 

wherever  it  comes  frae  ;  and  then  there's  the  young  lady,  Miss 
Rose,  ye  ken,  hasna  made  up  her  mind  if  she's  to  be  married 
on  the  doctor  lad  out  of  Stirling,  or  yon  birkie  in  Edinburgh. 
I  think  she's  maist  disposed  to  him — and  I'll  warrant  he's  a 
grand  man,  for  he  has  it  in  his  e'e — nae  fear  o'  Mr.  Hairy, 
when  he  has  a  writer  married  on  his  ae  sister,  and  sic  a  wise 
lady  for  his  ither." 

Poor  Rose  started — but,  to  do  her  justice,  quite  as  much 
because  Geordie's  remark  had  opened  her  eyes  to  a  new  dan- 
ger for  Harry,  as  because  Dragon's  unhesitating  disposal  of 
herself  dissipated  with  a  light  much  too  distinct  and  severe, 
the  indefinite  happiness  of  her  dreams. 

•'  Is't  true  he's  gaun  to  take  AUender  Mains  into  his  ain 
hands  ?  "  said  Geordie.  "  I  hear  the  land's  to  bear  threple 
crops  when  the  laird's  new  manager  comes.  I'll  no  say  but  it 
might  if  it  was  weel  lookit  after,  and  I  would  like  to  say  a 
word  to  him  mysel  about  that  new  harrow  and  better  graith 
for  the  beasts.  I'm  saying,  auld  man — do  ye  think  Allenders 
is  sure  to  baud  at  it,  if  he  begins  wi'  the  farm  ?  " 

"  Man,  he  delved  and  dibbled  in  the  garden  ae  night  for  a 
haill  hour  !  "  exclaimed  the  applauding  Dragon. 

Geordie  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  no  sae  sure  that's  a  good 
sign.  And  then,  ye  see,  the  farming  takes  siller.  I  would 
like  to  ken  if  it's  true  what  they  say,  uncle,  that  this  lad  was 
naething  but  a  puir  lad  afore  he  wan  to  Allenders  ;  but  if  he 
hasna  siller  o'  his  ain,  he  ne'er  can  carry  on  at  this  rate.  Ony 
way,  it's  a  comfort  the  land  maun  aye  be  tilled,  and  that  ane 
gets  ane's  bread  whaever's  maister.  But  here's  Mysie.  Guid 
day  to  ye,  auld  man." 

"  And  I'll  away  in,  Missie,  to  see  about  my  kail,"  said 
Dragon.  "  It's  eleven  in  the  day  by  the  sun.  Ye  should 
gang  to  Mysie,  and  get  a  piece  yoursel." 

The  old  man  shuffled  away,  and  Lettie,  swinging  round  the 
thick  trunk  of  the  oak,  suddenly  came  upon  Rose.  The  child's 
eyes  were  glistening,  dark  and  wistful,  and  there  was  a  cloud 
of  the  old  vague  gloom  and  discouragement  upon  her  face. 

"  What  way  do  they  ask  if  Harry  has  siller,  Rose  7  "  asked 
Lettie,  anxiously  ;  "  what  way  do  they  say  he  hasna  enough  ? 
Was  Allenders  no  a  grand  fortune  when  Harry  got  it  ?  and 
what  way  is  it  no  a  grand  fortune  now  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell,  Lettie,"  said  Rose,  sadly.  "  Come  away, 
and  we'll  go  in,  and  you'll  read  a  book  to  Martha  and  me." 

Lettie  put  her  hand   into  her  sister's  quietly,  and  they 


HARRY   MUIR.  203 

went  in  together.  Martha  was  still  at  her  window — still  work- 
ing with  her  old  silent  assiduity — and  Rose  drew  a  chair  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  little  table,  and,  greatly  subdued  and 
eobered,  took  up  out  of  Martha's  basket,  a  piece  of  embroidery, 
and  began  to  '•  open  '•  it  as  busily  as  of  yore.  This  work  was 
still  regularly  supplied  to  Martha  by  Uncle  Sandy  in  Ayr. 
It  was  a  satisfaction  to  her  to  pursue  those  unknown  labours 
day  by  day  ;  and  Rose,  too,  began  with  a  kind  of  desperate 
energy — as  if  such  a  pittance  as  she  could  earn  could  have  any 
effect  upon  the  fortunes  of  Harry  ;  but  still  it  was  a  satisfaction 
to  do  what  she  could. 

Katie  Calder  came  in  from  the  garden,  flushed  and  merry, 
and  could  not  comprehend  the  quietness  which  had  fallen  upon 
Rose  and  her  little  playfellow,  though  Lettie's  changing  moods 
ceased  to  surprise  her  constant  companion  ;  so  Katie  resumed 
her  pilgrimages  between  Martha's  room  and  the  dressmaker's, 
and  began  her  doll's  bonnet  with  great  success  and  eclat  ; 
while  Violet  again  seated  on  the  carpet,  solemnly  commenced 
to  read  '■"  Hydrotaphia  "  to  her  quite  uninterested  auditors  ; 
but  finding  this  would  not  do,  suddenly  threw  it  down,  and 
began  to  tell  them  Dragon's  story. 

The  sisters  listened  with  quiet  pleasure :  they  did  not  al- 
ways understand  Lettie,  in  her  reveries  and  dreamings,  and 
she  was  naturally  shy  of  speech  ;  but  Martha  had  already 
been  startled  on  more  than  one  occasion  by  the  strange  intui- 
tive perceptions  of  her  youngest  "  bairn."  and  she  said  with  an 
affectionate  smile  when  the  story  ended,  "  You  will  be  like 
Lady  Violet,  Lettie — you  will  make  ballads  too." 

A.  burning  flush  crossed  the  child's  face,  and  she  did  not 
speak  for  some  time.  Then  she  looked  up  to  say :  "  Dragon 
says  Harry's  no  a  canny  name  for  the  Lairds  of  Allenders, 
and  there  never  has  been  one,  Martha,  from  Lady  Violet's 
time  till  now." 

A  cloud  passed  over  Martha's  face — a  very  slight  fantastic 
thing  was  enough  at  this  time  to  leave  a  permanent  shadow. 

And  it  was  a  week  before  Harry  returned  ;  and  he  came 
back  sullen,  gloomy,  and  exhausted,  with  nothing  to  tell  them, 
as  he  said — nor  had  he  seen  Charteris  except  once,  and  that 
on  the  first  day  he  spent  in  Edinburgh.  Poor  Harry  !  he  had 
not  yet  expended  a  farthing  on  his  farming  operations,  and  he 
dared  not  think  how  little  remained  of  Miss  Jean's  thousand 
pounds. 


204  HARRY    MUIK. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 


The  wind  Ijlows  east,  the  wind  blows  west, 
And  then  comes  both  sun  and  rain. 

Carltle. 


The  autumn  passed  with  many  ordinary  vicissitudes,  with 
times  of  peacefuhiess,  and  times  of  trouble ;  and  in  the  house 
of  Allenders  another  baby  son  was  born.  It  was  just  when 
Harry  was  beginning  the  business  of  his  farm,  and  after  a  time 
of  great  abstraction  and  excitement,  during  which  he  had  vis- 
ited Edinburgh  once  or  twice,  and  was  evidently  occupied  with 
some  business  which  he  could  not  confide  to  any  one  at  home. 
But  Harry's  mind  had  been  lightened  before  his  baby  came ; 
the  farm-manager  had  arrived  ;  Geordie,  the  nephew  of  the 
feeble  Dragon,  had  spoken  his  mind  to  Allenders  about  the 
new  harrow  and  the  plough-graith,  and  had  been  graciously 
heard — so  graciously,  that  Geordie  immediately  decided  on  an 
affirmative  answer  to  the  question  which  agitated  the  whole 
population  of  Maidlin  Cross,  and  ever  after  maintained  that 
"  the  laird  Imd  siller  o'  his  ain,  bye  the  lands,  and  that  he  was 
just  living  free  and  openhanded,  as  a  gentleman  should  live." 
It  was  one  of  Harry's  sunshine  times ;  and  many  a  heart  wish- 
ed kindly  wishes  for  him,  as  he  stood  in  Maidlin  Church,  his 
young  wife  in  her  graceful  weakness,  and  his  sisters  seated  by 
his  side,  and  held  up  his  child  to  receive  the  baptismal  sprink- 
ling, and  to  be  named  with  the  name  of  the  Lord.  '•  He  has 
the  kindliest  face  I  ever  saw — ane's  heart  warms  to  the  lad — 
blessings  on  him,"  said  an  old  woman  on  the  pulpit  stairs  ;  and 
Martha's  heart  swelled  with  the  echoed  blessing. 

And  there  were  blessings  on  him — blessings  which  many  a 
desolateheartsighed  and  pined  for  in  vain — blessings  of  rare  love 
arid  tenderness,  of  children  fair  and  hopeful,  and  in  his  own  person 
of  a  competent  mind,  and  of  the  bright  health  and  youth  to 
which  everything  was  possible.  So  far  as  his  starting  point 
was  concerned,  a  wonderful  realization  had  come  to  Martha's 
ambitious  hopes  for  him :  and  now  it  almost  seemed  to  lie 
with  Harry  himself  to  decide  what  the  end  of  them  should  be. 

In  the  farm-house  of  Allender  Mains,  Harry's  farm-mana- 
ger has  already  established  himself,  and  from  the  midst  of  its 


HARRY    MUIR.  205 

bare  trees  you  see  appearing  the  half-built  chimney  of  the  new 
threshing-mill,  the  machinery  of  which  has  just  arrived  under 
charge  of  two  young  engineers  from  Glasgow  ;  and  the  slope  of 
the  farm-garden,  and  all  the  barnyard  behind,  is  lined  with  great 
draiuing-pipes,  glancing  red  through  the  hoar-frost  at  a  mile 
or  two's  distance,  upon  their  slight  elevation.  And  just  be- 
hind the  little  byre  and  stable  of  AUenders'  house,  a  great 
range  of  new  stables  and  byres  are  rising,  to  receive  the  cat- ' 
tie,  which  Harry  has  resolved  shall  be  unequalled  in  the  coun- 
try-side. When  the  weather  is  •'  fresh,"  you  cannot  pass  a 
field  without  seeing  the  heavy  breath  of  the  plough-horses, 
rising  like  a  mist  over  the  hedge,  and  hearing  the  meditative 
whistle,  or  uncouth  call  of  the  ploughman  behind.  An  air  of 
sudden  activity  spreads  over  the  little  district — so  decided 
and  apparent,  indeed,  that  a  retired  weaver  in  Stirling  has  al- 
ready two  new  houses  in  progress,  one  of  which  is  a  little  shop, 
in  the  very  front  of  Maidlin  Cross.  The  event  excited  the 
hamlet  to  a  positive  uproar,  for  never  before  had  any  man 
dreamed  of  dignifying  Maidlin  with  such  a  two-storied  slated 
house  as  slowly  grew  upon  its  astonished  vision  now. 

Andin  the  dusk  of  the  winter  mornings  you  see  the  lanes 
full  of  hardy  brown  children,  girded  with  rough  sackcloth 
aprons — bound  for  school,  you  would  fancy.  No,  they  are 
bound  for  Harry's  fields,  to  "'  gather  stanes,"  and  have  each  a 
little  "wage  "  to  carry  home  on  Saturday  night  to  the  immense 
delight  of  mother  and  child.  The  fathers  are  laying  drains 
and  ploughing,  the  elder  sisters  tend  the  fine  cows  in  the  byre 
at  Allender  Mains,  and  prosperity  to  which  they  are  altogeth- 
er unaccustomed  falls  suddenly  upon  the  startled  inhabitants 
of  Maidlin  Cross. 

And  landlords  and  farmers,  startled  too,  are  looking  more 
scrupulously  to  themselves,  lest  they  be  outdone  by  the  new- 
comer ;  the  blood  stirs  in  the  awakened  veins  of  the  country 
side,  and  something  of  emulation,  keener  than  the  keenest  air 
of  December,  strikes  into  the  warm  fireside  corner,  where 
honest  men  can  no  longer  take  in  peace  their  afternoon's  glass 
of  toddy,  and  its  accompanying  newspaper,  for  constant  reports 
of  what  is  doing  at  AUenders,  and  what  AUenders  himself  is 
doing — for  Harry's  active  footstep  rings  along  the  frost-bound 
paths,  and  Harry's  frank  salutations  scatter  good-will  among 
his  husbandmen  every  day  ;  and  steady  going  agricultural 
people  waken  up,  and  look  after  their  own  omissions  and  neg- 
lects, with  a  half-grudge  at  AUenders. 


206  HARRY    MUIR. 

It  seems  that  Harry  has  found  at  last  the  life  suitable  for 
him.  Though  the  snow  lies  heavy  on  the  sullen  brow  of  De- 
meyet,  and  every  blade  of  grass  on  the  lawn  is  crisped  into 
distinct  identity,  and  the  burn  is  frost-bound  under  the  trees, 
and  an  icy  hand  restrains  the  tinkling  springlet  of  the  Lady's 
Well.  Harry  never  fails  to  visit  his  fields. 

"  Tlie  best  compost  for  the  lands 
Is  the  master's  feet  and  hands," 

he  says  with  a  laugh,  as  he  wraps  his  plaid  about  him,  and  sets 
out  in  the  face  of  the  keenest  wind  that  sweeps  out  of  the 
highlands,  and  Agnes,  with  the  new  baby  on  her  arm,  sits  by 
the  fireside  with  radiant  smiles,  and  Martha  looks  after  him 
from  the  window,  where  now  the  jasmine  clings  in  long  brown 
fibres  to  the  wall,  without  a  single  adorning  leaf,  and  in  her 
heart  tries  to  forget  all  the  dread  and  all  the  bitter  thoughts 
which  mingled  in  the  summer-time  with  the  sickly  odour  of 
those  jasmine  flowers. 

Yet  sometimes  Harry  is  abstracted  and  full  of  care.  They 
believe  that  he  is  thinking  then  of  errors  which  they  believe 
are  now  happily  past  for  ever ;  for  no  one  in  the  house  but 
Martha,  ever  remembers,  that  all  these  improvements  must 
cost  more  than  Miss  Jean's  thousand  pounds — and  Marth  finds 
all  her  attempts  at  inquiry  evaded.  She  never  can  succeed  in 
learning  where  Harry  gets  the  means  of  accomplishing  so 
much,  and  it  is  only  now  and  then,  when  an  incautious  murmur 
about  interest,  or  legal  charges,  reaches  her,  that  she  has 
ground  for  her  conjecture  that  he  has  borrowed  from  others 
besides  Miss  Jean.  But  Martha  believes  with  trembling  that 
Harry's  mind  is  changed — that  his  purposes  are  no  longer 
fluctuating  and  unsteady — that  he  has  reached  at  last  the  great 
strength  and  motive  power  of  the  Christian  life  ;  and  she  can 
trust  all  lesser  things  to  the  regulation  of  that  which  is  above 
all. 

And  they  never  say  poor  Harry — never  except  when  they 
are  commenting  with  full  hearts  and  eyes  upon  some  new  proof 
of  Harry's  kindness — and  then  it  is  said  in  applauding,  grate- 
ful love,  and  not  in  pity.  No  longer  poor  Harry — for  is  he 
not  a  great  landed  proprietor,  making  such  a  stir  in  his  district 
as  no  Allenders  has  done  before  him  for  a  hundred  years  ?  and 
has  not  Sir  John  Dunlop  invited  Allenders  of  Allenders  to 
dine  with  him  on  Christmas  day  ? 


HARRY    MUIR.  207 

They  are  very  glad  it  is  Christmas  day  and  not  the  new 
year — the  Scottish  family  holy-tide — and  Harry  comes  home 
greatly  elated  from  Sir  John  Dunlop's  where  they  have  treated 
him  with  the  greatest  distinction,  like  a  guest  of  special 
honour.  Lady  Dunlop,  too,  promises  to  call  on  Mrs.  Allen- 
ders.  and  Agnes  blushes  deep  for  pleasure,  and  is  fluttered  and 
excited,  and  sings  to  the  baby  such  a  song  of  triumph,  that 
instead  of  being  lulled  to  sleep  as  she  intends,  he  opens  his 
blue  eyes  wide,  and  seizing  on  the  lace  about  her  pretty  neck, 
tears  it  with  exultation  and  delight.  Happy  baby !  young 
enough  to  do  mischief  with  impunity  !  Little  Harry,  now  two 
full  years  old,  who  does  not  at  all  admire  this  supplanting 
baby,  and  is  still  sore  about  his  own  dethronement,  clenches 
his  fist  at  him  in  anger  and  envy,  and  is  the  only  person  in 
the  fireside  circle  who  has  sympathy  with  Agnes's  tribulation 
about  her  perished  lace. 

Next  week  Cuthbert  Charteris  is  coming  for  a  single  day 
to  pay  them  a  visit,  for  Cuthbert  is  very  busy  now,  laying  the 
foundation  of  a  great  business ;  and  in  honour  of  Cuthbert 
there  is  to  be  a  party — the  first  which  they  have  attempted — 
when  the  covers  are  to  be  taken  off  the  drawing-room  chairs, 
and  Agnes  and  Rose  are  to  appear  in  full, costume.  Youthful 
and  inexperienced  as  they  all  are,  this  is  a  great  event  to  them, 
and  Agnes  innocently  reports  to  Harry  various  elegancies  which 
she  would  like  to  have  on  her  table  and  her  pretty  drawing- 
room,  before  the  notable  day ;  and  Harry  lays  before  them  a 
plan  of  Miss  Dunlop's  for  a  conservatory,  which  she  herself  has 
strongly  recommended  to  him.  Harry  thinks  he  will  set 
about  it  immediately,  and  it  will  not  cost  much,  and  Agnes 
and  Rose  are  delighted  and  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  ar- 
tistic talent  of  Miss  Dunlop. 

But  to-morrow  Harry  has  to  pay  fifty  labourers — to-mor- 
row a  quarter's  salary  falls  due  to  the  farm  manager — to-mor- 
row he  has  promised  to  pay  for  some  fine  Ayrshire  cows,  now 
luxuriating  in  the  byre  at  Allender  Mains — and  to-morrow, 
alas  !  there  are  two  separate  dividends  of  interest,  which 
cannot  be  postponed — Miss  Jean's,  and  a  heavier  creditor 
than  Miss  Jean. 

So  Harry  retires  to  his  library  when  they  have  left  him, 
and  chafes  himself  a  little  over  the  trouble  of  so  many  com- 
plicated concerns,  and  feels  a  momentary  shiver  pass  over 
him,  as  he  wonders  how  he  will  do  when  the  great  sum  he 
lately  lodged  in  his  bank  at  Stirling  shall  be  exhausted — what 


208  HARRY    MUIR. 

then,  Harry?  witli  more  than  three  hundred  of  interest  to 
pay,  and  only  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  ?  And  Harry's 
brow  contracts  for  a  monient,  and  a  shadow  steals  over  his 
face  ;  but  immediately  it  brightens.  "  Why  by  that  time,  to 
be  sure,  the  farm  will  have  doubled  its  value,  and  I  shall  be 
a  rich  man,"  he  repeats  half  aloud,  with  a  short  laugh  of  satis- 
faction, and  going  to  his  writing-table,  he  puts  down  in  per- 
manent "  black  and  white,"  a  list  of  the  pretty  things  in  silver- 
work  and  upholstery,  which  he  has  promised  to  order  before 
Agnes's  party,  and  throwing  himself  into  an  easy-chair,  reads 
a  novel  for  an  hour  with  the  lightest  heart  in  the  world. 

While  Agnes  visits  little  Harry  in  his  crib  to  kiss  him  as 
he  sleeps,  and  folds  the  new-come  brother  into  her  own  bosom, 
and  lies  down  to  her  happy  rest ;  and  Rose,  between  sleeping 
and  waking,  dreams,  with  a  heart  full  of  sweet  anticipations  ; 
and  Martha  in  the  darkness  looks  out  upon  the  falling  snow, 
and  on  the  pallid  moon  lightening  Demeyet,  and  bids  the 
stern  voice  of  her  experience  be  still,  and  let  her  hope — 
Hope  !  she  holds  it  to  her  heart  with  a  desperate  clutch,  as  a 
drowning  mother  holds  her  child,  and  is  still,  waiting  for  the 
will  of  God. 

Not  a  sound  breaks  the  profound  slumber  of  Maidlin 
Cross,  where  Harry's  labourers,  free  of  all  care  for  the  mor- 
row, lie  silent  in  the  deep  sleep  which  compensates  their  toil. 
Not  a  sound  disturbs  the  quietness  of  AUenders,  except  that 
small  voice  of  Violet  asking  in  the  darkness  if  Katie  is  asleep. 
Yes,  Katie  is  asleep  :  shut  your  dark  eyes,  Lettie,  and  say 
your  prayers,  that  Lady  Violet  may  not  come  in  her  glisten- 
ing garments  to  sit  yonder  in  the  darkest  corner,  and  hold 
you  with  her  glittering  eye  ;  but  except  for  this  visionary 
dread,  and  the  one  ache  of  ancient  fear  in  Martha's  graver 
breast — fear  which  only  dwells  far  down  in  the  depths,  like 
an  echo  in  a  well — this  hour  of  rest  sheds  nothing  but  peace 
upon  the  home  of  Harry  Muir. 


HARRY    MUIR.  209 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

Tlie  Count  is  neither  sad  nor  sick,  nor  merry,  nor  -well ;  but  civil.  Count — civil  as  an 
orange,  and  something  of  that  jealous  complexion. — Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

On  the  eve  of  the  important  party,  Cuthbert  Charteris  arrived 
at  Allenders. 

Half-frozen  with  his  journey,  and  shaking  from  his  coat 
large  flakes  of  the  snow,  which  trembled  in  the  air,  they  took 
him  into  the  dining-room,  where  a  blazing  fire,  a  late  dinner, 
and  the  warm  and  smiling  welcome  of  Agnes  greatly  solaced 
the  wayfarer.  Harry  had  met  him  in  Stirling,  and  driven 
him  out  ;  but  Harry's  carriage,  though  it  could  be  closed,  was 
not  so  comfortable  on  a  December  night  as  in  the  bright  sun- 
shine of  a  July  day.  Cuthbert  made  hurried  inquiries  after 
Martha  and  Rose,  in  answer  to  which  Agnes  began  a  most 
animated  account  of  an  unexpected  call  from  "young  Mr. 
Dunlop  "  to  say  that  his  sister  would  be  very  happy  to  come 
with  him  to  Agnes's  party.  Little  Mrs.  Muir  Allenders,  had 
only  ventured  at  the  last  moment  to  invite  the  baronet's 
daughter  :  and  then  with  but  the  faintest  expectation  that 
Miss  Dunlop  would  come.  Agnes  was  gi-eatly  elated  ;  and 
Rose  and  Martha  were  with  Mr.  Dunlop  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

But  on  the  peaceful  countenance  of  Cuthbert  Charteris 
there  passed  a  momentary  savageness.  At  this  moment  it 
seemed  to  him,  in  unconscious  self-estimation,  that  he,  as  the 
newly-arrived  guest  and  tried  friend,  should  130  the  principal 
person  at  Allenders — whereas  this  young  Mr.  Dunlop,  most 
probably  a  nobody,  as  Cuthbert  concluded  with  amiable  liber- 
ality, defrauded  him  of  his  welcome  from  the  sisters,  and 
drew  away  Harry  from  his  side.  Tt  was  true  that  Harry 
returned  in  ten  minutes,  and  that  Martha  and  Agnes  changed 
places  ;  but  still  Cuthbert  involuntarily  frowued.  Might  not 
Rose,  in  common  courtesy,  have  come  to  greet  him  1  Alas, 
poor  Rose  !  for  Cuthbert  could  not  tell  how  she  trembled  at 
the  bright  fireside  of  the  drawing-room,  nor  how  the  aston- 
ished Agnes  threw  shawls  round  her  shoulders,  and  wondered 
what  could  make  her  so  cold. 


210  HARRY    MUIR. 

Mr.  Charteris  lingered  long  over  his  dinner.  Cuthbert,  to 
tell  the  truth,  was  rather  sullen,  and  made  by  no  means  a 
brilliant  appearance  to  Martha  and  Harry,  who  sat  with  him 
while  he  refreshed  himself.  He  had  a  great  inclination,  in- 
deed, to  wrap  himself  up  again  in  his  travelling  dress,  say  a 
surly  good-bye  at  the  drawing-room  door,  and  betake  himself 
home  without  delay ;  but  Cuthbert  disconsolately  comforted 
himself,  that  it  was  only  for  one  day,  and  sat  with  all  his 
attention  concentrated  on  the  sounds  from  the  staircase,  dog- 
gedly assuring  himself  that  no  one  would  come.  And  no  one 
did  come ;  and  Cuthbert  was  enraged  at  the  fulfilment  of  his 
own  prophecy. 

By  and  bye,  he  went  up-stairs,  attended  by  Harry,  who 
did  not  quite  comprehend  this  singular  mood,  to  his  own  room ; 
and  Rose  heard  his  voice  on  the  stair,  and  trembled  still  more 
and  more,  though  young  Mr.  Dunlop  sat  by,  and  did  all  that 
in  him  lay  to  engage  her  attention.  But  poor  Rose  felt  a 
great  inclination  to  steal  away  to  her  own  room  and  cry  ;  for 
she  in  her  turn,  thought  it  strange,  very  strange,  that  Cuthbert 
should  linger  so  long,  and  show  so  little  wish  to  see  her. 

And  when  Cuthbert,  his  face  still  tingling  from  the  cold 
blast  without,  entered  the  warm  and  cheerful  drawing-room, 
and  saw  young  Mr.  Dunlop  sitting  beside  the  silent  Rose,  de- 
scribing to  her  with  animation  some  storied  continental  towns 
from  which  he  had  lately  returned,  the  grave  advocate  felt 
himself  yield  to  boyish  pique  and  jealous  resentment — "  Civil 
as  an  orange,  and  something  of  that  jealous  complexion,"  the 
tone  of  his  constrained  greeting  dismayed  Rose,  and  when  he 
had  taken  her  hand  in  his  own  somewhat  chill  one,  and  let  it 
fall  again  with  scarcely  a  pressure,  he  withdrew  to  the  other 
side  of  the  room,  and  began  to  talk  to  Martha.  Rose,  who 
had  not  been  a  very  good  listener  before,  became  worse  than 
ever  now — but  Mr.  Charteris,  trying  to  look  very  indifferent, 
occupied  himself  almost  ostentatiously  with  Martha,  and 
laughed  at  his  own  jokes,  and  became  quite  exuberant  and  de- 
monstrative, though  he  never  spoke  to  Rose. 

But  Rose  would  not  tell  her  sister,  when  she  unexpectedly 
brought  a  light  to  their  dark  room  that  night,  why  she  was 
crying ;  it  was  for  nothing  at  all,  Rose  protested — indeed  no- 
thing at  all — but  faster  and  faster  the  tears  ran  down  her 
cheek,  and  she  had  much  to  do  to  keep  back  a  rising  sob. 
Martha  put  her  hand  over  the  wet  eyes  tenderly,  and  did  not 
ask  again — for  she  could  guess  without  explanation,  the  cause 
of  Rose's  tears. 


HARRY    MUIR.  211 

Next  day  Mr.  Charteris  rode  out  with  Harry  to  see  the 
improvements.  He  was  much  interested  in  them,  he  said,  and 
so  he  was — far  iuore  interested  than  he  felt  yesterday  when 
he  came. 

Cuthbert  had  been  having  a  consulation  with  himself  dur- 
ing the  night — a  consultation  in  which  he  looked  at  various 
circumstances  from  a  point  of  view  exactly  opposite  to  that  of 
Rose.  He  saw  "  young  Mr.  Dunlop,"  son  of  the  rich  Sir  John, 
a  wealthier  man  than  he  could  ever  be,  devoting  himself  to 
her  unequivocally,  as  Cuthbert  thought — and  Cuthbert  in  his 
heart  devoutly  believed  that  Rose's  gentle  excellence  needed 
only  to  be  seen  to  win  all  love  and  honour.  So  he  gravely 
asked  himself  whether  it  would  be  right  for  him,  even  if  it 
were  in  his  power,  to  stand  in  the  way,  and  endeavour  to  se- 
cure for  himself,  who  must  struggle  for  years  in  the  uphill 
road  to  success,  one  who  would  do  honour  to  this  higher  rank 
which  seemed  about  to  be  laid  at  her  feet.  And  Cuthbert, 
with  the  self-denial  of  a  man  who  magnanimously  gives  up, 
what  he  sees  no  hope  of  ever  attaining,  said  to  himself:  No — 
no — His  affection,  strong  and  powerful  as  it  was,  should  never 
stand  in  Rose's  way. 

And  this  was  no  small  trial  to  Cuthbert.  He  had  come 
here  prepared  to  say  certain  things  which  would  have  made 
one  heart  in  Allenders  leap.  He  had  even  gone  so  far  as  to 
confide  his  intention  to  his  mother,  and  it  was  somewhat  hard 
now  to  give  it  up,  and  go  steadily  back  to  his  books  and  his 
struggles,  relinquishing  for  ever  the  fairy  solace  of  these  disap- 
pointed hopes.  It  was  hard,  was  it  right  ?  Cuthbert  persuaded 
himself  so,  as  he  rode  silently  along  those  wintry  lanes,  where 
the  snow  lay  thick  under  the  hedges,  and  whitened  every 
spray  ;  but  Cuthbert  did  not  know  how  great  a  share  in  it  be- 
longed to  the  pride  which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 

When  he  returned  to  Allenders,  Rose  was  busy  with  Agnes 
in  preparation  for  the  party.  He  did  not  see  her,  and  this 
brought  confirmation  to  his  previous  thoughts.  Then  came  the 
party  itself,  an  ordinary  collection  of  well-looking,  well-dressed 
people,  among  whom  Cuthbert,  with  his  preoccupied  thoughts, 
found  very  little  to  interest  him.  Miss  Dunlop,  it  is  true,  a 
well-bred,  trained,  mature  young  lady,  acquainted  with  the 
world,  made  herself  very  polite  and  agreeable,  and  evidently 
regarded  Cuthbert  as  one  of  the  most  tolerable  persons  pre- 
sent ;  but  then  Mr.  Dunlop  was  at  Rose's  side  again,  and  Rose 
looked  shy  and  pale,  and  embarrassed,  shrinking  from  the  glance 


212  HARRY    MUIR. 

and  touch  of  her  new  attendant  as  an  indifferent  person  never 
could  do.  Cuthbert  turned  away  with  a  great  sigh  when  he 
perceived  her  face  flush  and  grow  pale,  her  hand  tremble,  her 
eyes  cast  down.  He  thought  it  was  the  stranger  beside  her 
whose  presence  called  forth  these  unwilling  evidences  of 
maidenly  tremor  and  confusion  ;  and  he  turned  away,  feeling 
as  if  some  burning  hand  had  clutched  at  his  heart. 

But  Cuthbert  could  not  see  the  wistful  glances,  which, 
when  he  painfully  averted  his  eyes,  dwelt  upon  him  with  inquir- 
ing sadness  ;  and  when  he  looked  again,  Rose  was  sitting  silent 
as  before,  with  sudden  flushes  on  her  face,  and  sudden  tremors 
in  her  frame,  answering,  it  is  true,  with  few  words  and  a  little 
melancholy  smile,  when  any  one  addressed  her,  but  entirely 
failing  to  make  the  impression  which  Harry  had  predicted  for 
her  pink  silk  gown.  And  there  was  Mr.  Dunlop  paying  his 
devoirs  gallantly  ;  those  easy  assiduities  of  word  and  manner  ! 
— Cuthbert  felt  the  strong  love  sicken  his  own  heart,  as  he 
said  to  himself  that  these  had  charmed-the  trustful  spirit  of  his 
Lady  Rose. 

And  Mr.  Dunlop,  observing  the  changes  of  her  face,  at 
first  with  a  little  amusement,  very  soon  came  to  the  same  con- 
clusion too,  and  was  embarrassed  and  annoyed,  gratified  and 
proud.  For  nothing  was  further  from  the  thoughts  of  the 
baronet's  son,  for  whom  the  magnanimous  Cuthbert  was  wil- 
ling to  sacrifice  himself,  than  any  particular  admiration  of 
Rose,  or  the  faintest  intention  of  offering  himself  to  the  sister 
of  Harry  Muir.  But  the  young  man  was  human,  and  not  in- 
sensible to  ladies'  love.  He  thought,  like  Cuthbert,  that  his 
attractions  had  overpowered  Rose,  and  his  tone  insensibly 
grew  tender,  and  his  attentions  marked,  till  Rose,  able  to  bear 
it  no  longer,  stole  away. 

"  Poor  Rose  Allenders,"  said  Miss  Dunlop  to  Cuthbert,  as 
Rose  left  the  room.  "  She  seems  to  think  John  is  in  love 
with  her  ;  she  is  a  very  nice  little  girl,  I  think,  but  some  young 
ladies  are  so  ridiculous,  taking  every  little  attention  so  seri- 
ously, and  I  really  must  speak  to  John." 

But  Cuthbert,  if  she  knew  it,  could  have  thrown  John  out 
of  the  window  with  far  greater  pleasure  than  he  handed 
John's  sister  to  the  new  piano ;  and  immediately  after  he  sat 
down  for  a  full  hour  to  watch  the  door,  with  so  much  earnest- 
ness and  solicitude  in  his  face,  that  Rose,  when  she  stole  in 
again,  brightened  as  a  with  a  sudden  sunshine.  And  Cuth- 
bert's  heart  lightened  a  little  too  j  but  still  it  was  full  of  dis- 


HARRY    MUIR.  213 

trust  and  doubt,  and  lie  never  drew  near  her  to  speak  the 
words,  or  hear  the  response,  which  might  have  set  this  doubt 
at  rest. 

The  night  was  over,  and  nothing  but  the  most  ordinary 
civilities  had  passed  between  them  ;  next  morning  he  was  to 
go  away.  He  stood  on  the  threshold  in  his  rough  travelling 
coat  and  plaid,  saying,  "  Good  bye,"  with  a  voice  which  slight- 
ly faltered.  He  had  shaken  hands  with  Rose  in  the  dining- 
room,  where  they  breakfasted,  and  now  he  thought  he  was 
taking  farewell  of  Allenders.  But  as  he  looked  back  between 
Martha  and  Agnes,  who  had  come  with  him  to  the  door, 
Cuthbert  saw  a  shy,  lingering  figure  in  the  doorway  of  the 
room  he  had  left.  His  heart  warmed  ;  he  stepped  back  to 
take  Rose's  hand  again,  and  press  it  kindly  in  another  fare- 
well. They  said  nothing  except  "Good  bye;"  but  Cuthbert 
caught  one  timid,  upward  glance,  and  Rose  saw  the  full 
steady  look  which  conveyed  to  her  so  much  of  what  the  heart 
meant  to  say.  The  cloud  rose  from  her  heart  and  floated 
away  ;  in  another  moment  Cuthbert  was  gone,  and  she  sat 
down  to  her  work  in  intense  silence,  eager  to  resume  her 
dreams ;  but  Cuthbert  rolled  away  on  the  frosty  road,  and 
looked  back  on  A.llenders,  with  a  sadness  at  his  heart. 

He  had  hitherto  unconsciously  assumed  to  himself  the 
right  of  assistance  and  succour  if  any  emergency  should  come. 
Now  he  felt  this  gliding  away  from  him — now  he  could  no 
longer  dream  of  carrying  this  Rose  in  his  arms  to  the  safe 
place  where  rains  of  adversity  might  beat  upon  the  gentle 
heart  no  more.  The  future  of  which  he  had  speculated  so 
much,  grew  misty  and  uncertain  to  Cuthbert.  The  little  cloud 
of  breath  before  him,  hovering  in  the  frosty  air,  rose  up  like  a 
white  mist  upon  distant  Benledi,  and  obscured  him,  though  he 
looked  out  from  among  the  clouds ;  and  so  over  many  a 
great  event,  and  many  a  weighty  hour,  this  little  present  mist 
rose  dim  and  disheartening,  and  Cuthbert  could  not  look 
beyond  it — could  not  in  his  blended  pride,  and  eagerness,  and 
anxiety,  distinguish  the  simple  truth  under  this  momentary  veil. 

But  Harry  by  his  side,  spoke  of  his  projects,  and  Cuthbert 
seemed  to  listen,  and  gave  answers  not  so  far  astray,  though 
Cuthbert's  thoughts  were  little  employed  about  Harry's  im- 
provements, and  it  cost  him  an  effort  to  keep  up  his  attention. 
They  parted  very  cordially,  however,  and  Harry  urged  upon 
his  friend  repeated  invitations  to  return,  which  Cuthbert  was 
fain  to    evade.     He  remembered  Rose's  parting  glance,  and 


214  HARRY    MUIR. 

could  not  prevail  upon  himself  to  resign  the  chance  of  going 
back ;  but  again  he  thought  of  the  previous  day,  the  previous 
night,  and  sighed  to  himself  heavily  as  he  turned  his  face 
towards  home.  He  thought  he  had  looked  his  last  upon 
Rose. 

When  Harry  left  Cuthbert,  he  went  to  his  bankers  and 
drew  a  very  considerable  sum  from  his  "  capital ;"  but  Harry 
felt  he  had  been  very  economical  lately,  and  could  afford  a 
little  indulgence  now;  so  he  ordered  some  pretty  bits  of 
jewellery  which  he  had  fancied  Agnes  wanted  last  night,  and 
called  on  Gilbert  Allenders  and  some  other  choice  spirits,  and 
dined  with  them  at  the  principal  inn,  and  spent  the  evening 
merrily ;  nor  was  it  until  John  had  made  repeated  represen- 
tations of  the  darkness  of  the  night,  and  the  necessity  for  get- 
ting home,  that  Harry  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded,  and 
bid  a  reluctant  good-night  to  his  friends. 

Charteris  was  bending  over  a  mass  of  papers,  schooling  the 
heart  which  still  throbbed  so  loudly,  and  wearying  himself  out 
with  indifferent  business,  that  his  disappointment  might  not 
sit  too  near  the  source  of  his  strength,  when  Harry,  wearied 
by  quite  a  different  process,  drove  past  the  dark  and  silent 
houses  at  Maidlin  Cross.  The  labourers  there  were  lying 
down  to  the  untroubled  slumber  purchased  by  a  toilsome  day ; 
and  the  children  were  asleep  in  Allenders,  and  Martha  was 
standing  by  the  window  of  her  own  room,  looking  out  into  a 
darkness  so  profound,  that  it  made  her  blind,  and  feeling  a 
darkness  profounder  still  within  the  heart,  which  she  coerced 
into  absolute  silence ;  when,  drowsy  and  wearied  out,  dazzled 
with  the  lights,  and  annoyed  by  the  quietness,  Harry  came 
home. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

He  will  hang  upon  him  like  a  disease. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing. 

"  I've  a  great  mind  to  practice  out  here,  Harry,"  said  Gilbert 
Allenders ;  "  lots  of  scarlet-fever,  and  measles,  and  hooping- 
cough  to  start  a  man.  And  I  want  to  be  decent  and  respect- 
able, and  get  out  of  temptation.  If  you  were  in  an  interesting 
position,  like  me,  I'd  get  you  a  couple  of  rooms  at  AUender 


1 


HARRY    MUIR.  215 

Mains,  and  invite  you  to  dinner  every  day,  till  you  were  set 
up.  Interesting  children  of  Maidlin,  you  don't  know  how 
much  you  want  a  doctor  !  " 

"  And  would  you  actually  come  out  here  in  winter,  Gil- 
bert ?  "  said  Harry.  "  You  don't  know  how  dull  it  is  some- 
times." 

Harry  drew  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  and  returned  very 
gruffly  the  passing  salutation  of  Geordie  Paxton.  It  was  now 
a  week  since  he  had  visited  his  fields,  and  that  was  more  than 
time  to  make  Harry  sick — as  he  said — of  the  whole  concern. 

"  The  duties  of  my  profession,  Sir,"  said  Gilbert,  sol- 
emnly :  "  a  medical  man  is  always  a  martyr  to  the  public  and 
his  duty — always.  By  the  way,  Harry,  what  would  you  say 
to  take  a  run  up  to  town  for  a  week  or  two,  just  before  settling 
down?     I  think  it  would  do  me  good." 

And  Mr.  Gilbert  laid  his  hand  on  his  heart,  and  sighed, 
as  if  he  were  the  most  interesting  invalid  in  the  world. 

'•  To  town  ?  Do  you  mean  to  Stirling  ?  I  am  there  often 
enough  already,"  said  Harry. 

"  Stirling  !  "  Mr.  Gilbert  put  up  his  hand  to  arrange  the 
great  woollen  cravat  he  wore,  and  laughed  hoarsely.  "  You 
don't  fancy  I  call  that  little  hole  of  a  place,  town  !  How  in- 
nocent you  are,  after  all  !  " 

"  Am  I  ?  "  Harry  felt  himself  growing  very  angry,  and 
kicking  away  a  stone  which  happened  to  lie  beside  his  foot, 
sent  it  spinning  through  a  group  of  Maidlin  boys,  dispersing 
themselves  and  their  "  bools  "  in  all  directions.  If  it  had 
only  broken  Gilbert  AUenders'  shins  instead,  it  would  have 
pleased  Harry  better  ;  but  even  this  was  a  satisfaction. 

'•Very  well  aimed,"  said  Gilbert,  approvingly.  "  What  I 
mean  is,  London — town — there  is  but  one  '  town  '  in  the 
world.  Come  up  with  me,  Harry,  and  I'll  help  you  to  enjoy 
yourself     Come." 

"  Help  me  to  enjoy  myself,  will  you?  "  said  Harry,  scorn- 
fully. Harry  was  more  impatient  of  his  companion  to-day, 
than  he  had  been  for  a  long  time. 

"  Come,  come,  we're  old  companions  now,"  said  Gilbert  ; 
"  and  I  know  you  wouldn't  dislike  going  to  London  :  a  man 
of  your  years  and  station,  who  has  never  been  in  London,  is 
something  quite  unparalleled  !  The  country  should  subscribe 
for  a  glass-case,  and  show  you  in  it  as  a  real  old  country-gen- 
tleman, who  has  never  been  in  town  all  his  life,  and  never 
means  to  go  !  " 


21b  HARRY    MUIR. 

''  There  is  such  a  thing  as  going  too  far,"  said  Harry, 
haughtily. 

'•  Who  was  it  said  that,  the  first  night  I  saw  you — "  said 
the  malicious  Gilbert ;  "  don't  you  remember  ?  But  I  won't 
aggravate  you,  Harry  ;  and  you  needn't  look  as  if  you  could 
eat  me.     Come,  will  you  go  ?  " 

'•  I  don't  care  for  seeing  London.  What  is  it  to  me  ?  " 
said  Harry,  with  dignity  :  "just  half-a-dozen  big  towns  com- 
pounded into  one  !  What  should  send  everybody  to  London? 
At  the  same  time,  perhaps  I  may  go :  it's  just  as  well  going 
there,  as  staying  at  home  here,  doing  nothing.  And  there  is 
really  nothing  to  be  done  on  the  land  just  now,  in  such  a  frost." 

"  You  have  been  quite  a  hero,  Harry ! "  said  Gilbert ; 
"  few  men,  I  can  tell  you,  could  have  done  what  you  have 
done.  You  ought  to  give  yourself  a  little  rest.  Such  a 
thing  as  this,  now,"  said  Gilbert,  pointing  to  a  line  of  carts 
slowly  proceeding,  with  much  ringing  of  horses'  hoofs  and 
carters'  clogs,  along  the  frosty,  whitened  road,  "just  to  stand 
and  let  those  odorous  carts  pass  by  might  upset  a  man  of  your 
organization  :  yet  you've  been  among  them  constantly  for 
some  two  months,  now.  I  envy  you  your  force  of  resolution, 
Harry." 

Poor  Harry  !  this  piece  of  flattery  mollified  his  irritated 
temper  more  easily  than  anything  else  could  have  done.  Half 
conscious  that  he  had  already  abandoned  this  last  and  most 
costly  toy  of  his,  it  salved  his  conscience  to  have  his  perse- 
verance wondered  at.  He  put  his  arm  in  Gilbert's,  with 
sudden  friendliness. 

"  I  think  I  shall  go,  after  all,"  he  said.  "  Armstrong  can 
manage  everything  well  enough.  He  has  been  accustomed  to 
this  sort  of  thing  all  his  life  ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  it  re- 
quires that,  I  am  afraid,  to  make  a  farmer — that  is  to  say, 
your  thorough  enthusiastic  farmer.  But  now  that  January  is 
over,  I  think  a  few  weeks'  change  would  quite  set  me  up 
again  :  besides,  spring  always  reconciles  one  to  the  country. 
So  I  fancy  we  may  settle  upon  going,  Gilbert.  When  shall 
you  be  ready  ?  " 

"  In  a  day — any  time,"  said  Mr.  Gilbert,  shaking  the  thin, 
powdery  snow  from  the  hedge,  by  a  blow  of  his  cane.  "  I 
haven't  three  ladies  to  look  after  me,  as  you  have :  the  girls 
have  their  own  afi"airs  to  mind,  and  so  has  the  mamma.  I  get 
my  wardrobe  to  superintend  myself — different  from  you, 
Harry." 


HARRY    MUIR.  217 

And  not  quite  sure  whether  to  be  pleased,  and  accept  this 
as  a  token  of  his  superior  importance,  or  to  resent  it  as  a 
check  upon  his  manliness  and  independence.  Harry  began  im- 
mediately to  discuss  the  projected  journey — how  they  should 
go.  and  when  ;  and  it  was  soon  decided,  very  much  more  to 
Gilbert's  satisfaction,  than  to  the  good  pleasure  of  Agnes  and 
Martha,  at  home. 

For  Agnes  found  out  many  little  objections,  and  urged 
them  with  some  pique  and  displeasure  Agnes  thought  she 
herself,  his  wife,  would  have  been  a  much  more  suitable  com- 
panion for  Harry  than  Grilbert  Allenders  ;  and  she  should 
have  greatly  liked  to  go  to  London,  even  at  risk  of  leaving 
the  baby.  Martha  said  nothing  :  her  hope  was  gliding  out  of 
her  hands  again,  defying  all  her  eager  attempts  to  hold  it ; 
and  steady  darkness — darkness  as  of  the  Egyptian  night,  tan- 
gible and  positive,  was  settling  down  upon  Martha's  heart. 

'•  So  you  have  had  our  Edinburgh  friend  here  again.  Miss 
Rose  ? "  said  Mr.  Grilbert.  "  I  suppose  he  will  condescend  to 
be  civil  to  you.  What  is  the  man,  Harry  ?  Nothing  but  a 
Scotch  W.  S.,  I  suppose?" 

"  He  is  an  advocate,  and  a  gentleman,"  said  Rose,  under 
her  breath ;  and  when  she  had  said  this,  she  turned  to  the 
window,  fearful  of  disclosing  the  vivid  blush,  which  covered 
her  whole  face. 

"  When  I  called  on  him  with  Harry  in  July — I  would  not 
say.  in  presence  of  ladies,  what  my  impulse  was,"  said  Gilbert, 
lifting  his  large  bony  hand,  and  displaying  his  ringed  finger  in 
relief  against  the  black  brushwood  about  his  chin.  "  He  look- 
ed at  me  with  a  malice  which  disgusted  me.  I  suppose  he 
thought  I  was  in  his  way,"  added  Mr.  Gilbert,  complacently, 
bestowing  upon  Rose,  who  had  just  turned  her  head,  roused 
and  defiant,  a  most  emphatic  look  of  admiration. 

And  Harry  laughed :  Rose  turned  her  eyes  to  him  slowly, 
and  felt  her  heart  burn — that  Harry  should  think  so  meanly 
of  her  as  to  fancy  Gilbert  Allenders  could  stand  in  Cuthbert's 
way  ! 

'•  But  when  Mr.  Charteris  looks  at  you,  Rosie,"  whispered 
Violet,  "  his  lip  aye  moves,  and  the  lid  comes  over  the  eye. 
Last  time,  he  looked  as  if  he  could  greet :  what  was  that  for, 
Rose?" 

But  Rose  made  no  reply. 

There  were,  as  Gilbert  prophesied,  great  preparations  in 
Allenders  for  Harry's  departure,  and  various  purchases  made, 
10 


218  HARRY    MUIR. 

that  Harry's  appearance  away  from  home  might  be  worthy  the 
station  which  his  little  wife  thought  so  exalted.  None  of  them 
were  quite  prepared  for  the  total  insignificance  which  always 
falls  upon  a  solitary  visitor  to  London  ;  and  when  Grilbert. 
putting  up  his  own  little  carpet-bag,  took  occasion  to  remark, 
sneeringly,  upon  the  great,  new,  shining  portmanteau  which 
Harry  carried,  neither  himself  nor  Agnes,  who  had  come  to 
Stirling  to  see  him  away,  were  angry.  They  said,  "  Poor  Gil- 
bert !  "  in  a  sympathetic  look,  and  compassionated  him,  who 
had  neither  rank  to  maintain,  nor  a  little  wife  to  help  him  to 
maintain  it ;  and  when  Agnes,  as  she  went  away,  casting  wist- 
ful looks  behind  her  at  Harry,  caught  a  glimpse  of  Gilbert's 
great,  sallow,  unwholesome  face,  surmounted  by  its  little  tra- 
velling-cap, and  encircled  by  its  coarse,  wiry  hair,  she  could 
almost  have  been  bold  enough  to  turn  back,  and  follow  Harry. 
She  contrasted  them  in  her  mind  a  hundred  times,  during  her 
melancholy  drive  home,  and  had  many  a  dreary  thought  about 
temptation,  and  evil  company,  and  Harry  '"led  away." 

Poor  Harry  !  he  was  always  "  led  away;"  for  not  one  of 
his  anxious  watchers  could  prevail  with  herself  to  speak  of  his 
errors  in  harder  words  than  these. 

As  Agnes  returned  home,  she  called  at  Blaelodge  to  take 
up  the  children  ;  for  their  holidays  were  over,  and  they  had 
returned  to  school ;  and  a  little  cluster  of  other  children,  also 
returning  from  school,  hung  on  behind  the  carriage,  and  kept 
up  a  little  quick  tramp  of  feet  behind,  tempting  John  now  and 
then  to  wave  his  whip  good-humouredly  over  their  heads,  and 
warn  them  that  he  would  "come  down  the  next  time."  But 
John,  who  came  from  Maidlin  Cross  himself,  never  came  down; 
and  Violet  and  Katie,  peering  out  of  the  window  on  either 
side,  nodded  to  the  heads  of  their  respective  factions,  and  whis- 
pered to  each  other,  who  was  at  school,  and  who  was  "  gather- 
ing stanes,"  as  they  passed  band  after  band — some  with  books 
and  slates,  some  girded  with  their  great  work-aprons,  returning 
from  the  field. 

From  the  open  doors  at  Maidlin  Cross,  the  pleasant  fire- 
light shines  out  upon  the  road,  reddening  its  sprinkled  snow  ; 
and  figures  stand  in  the  doorways,  dark  against  the  cheery 
light  within  ;  and  voices  ring,  clear  and  sharp,  through  the  air. 
The  carriage,  now  deserted  by  its  band  of  attendants,  begins 
to  grow  rather  dreary  as  it  advances  into  the  darkness,  and 
Agnes  does  not  speak,  and  Katie  and  Violet  cannot  see  each 
other's  faces ;  but  they  are  quite  cheered  and  revived,  so  long 


HARRY    MUIR.  219 

as  they  can  hear  the  far-off  sound  of  those  voices  at  Maidlin 
Cross. 

And  by  the  fireside  Martha  and  Rose  sit  very  silently.  A 
faint  sound  comes  from  the  river,  and  the  wind  whistles  shrill 
among  the  leafless  trees  ;  hut  except  these,  and  now  and  then 
an  occasional  noise  from  the  kitchen,  where  Dragon  has  been 
summoned  in  to  sit  with  Mysie  and  her  companion,  that  there 
may  be  ''•  a  man  in  the  house,"  there  is  perfect  stillness  within 
and  without.  They  are  both  working — you  would  think  they 
never  do  any  thing  but  work — and  both  are  absorbed  and  lost 
in  their  own  thoughts.  When  at  rare  intervals  they  speak,  it  is 
to  wonder  how  far  Harry  will  be  by  this  time,  and  what  he  will 
see  in  London,  and  when  he  will  return  ;  but  they  do  not  say 
to  each  other  that  they  tremble  for  Harry,  nor  tell  what  dis- 
tinct remembrances  arise  before  them  both,  of  the  sad  scenes 
of  the  past ;  yet  now  and  then  a  sudden  start,  and  quick  look 
around  this  cheerful  room,  discover  to  you  that  they  have  for- 
gotten where  they  are  for  the  moment,  and  that  the  dim  walls 
of  Mrs.  Rodger's  parlour,  the  proper  background  of  many  a 
recalled  grief,  are  more  clearly  present  before  them,  than  this 
brighter  and  more  prosperous  place. 

Yet  they  are  cheered,  in  spite  of  themselves,  when  Agnes 
and  her  little  companions  come  in,  dazzled,  out  of  the  dark- 
ness ;  and  Lettie  volunteers  a  confession  of  some  fear  as  they 
came  along  that  dark  road,  close  to  the  Lady's  Well.  Silence 
is  not  congenial  to  Agnes,  and  the  baby  cries  loudly  in  the 
nursery  ;  and  little  Harry,  very  sleepy,  rouses  himself  up  to 
devour  cakes,  and  swallow  as  much  tea  as  is  permitted.  So 
the  night  passes  away ;  but  a  hundred  times  they  fancy  they 
hear  Harry's  summons  at  the  outer-door ;  and  almost  believe, 
with  a  thrill  between  hope  and  fear,  that  he  has  come  home. 

The  days  pass,  and  grow  into  weeks,  and  still  they  sit  all 
the  long  evening  through,  and  again  and  again  fancy  they  hear 
the  sound  of  his  return,  and  hold  their  breath  in  eager  listen- 
ing. A  few  letters,  containing  long  lists  of-things  he  has  seen, 
come  to  them  tardily  ;  but  they  never  think  of  Harry,  in  his 
extreme  occupation,  carrying  these  letters  about  with  him  for 
a  day  or  two,  before  he  recollects  to  send  them  away.  The 
farm-manager  comes  now  and  then,  anxious  to  see  Allenders  ; 
for  now  the  frost  has  broken  up,  and  a  genial  dry  season  has 
succeeded  it,  and  the  cautious  Armstrong  is  slow  to  do  any- 
thing without  his  employer's  approval.  Some  fertile,  well-cul- 
tivated land,  for  a  lease  of  which  Harry  was  bargaining  with 


220  FTARRT    MUIR. 

Sir  John  Dunlop's  factor,  as  a  profitable  addition  to  his  own 
farm,  has  been  secured  by  another  applicant  during  Harry's 
absence  ;  and  the  mason  who  contracted  for  Harry's  new  byres 
and  stables,  after  a  long  delay  by  the  frost,  now  refuses  to  go 
on,  till  he  has  received  one  of  the  payments  to  which  he  is  en- 
titled. But  no  answer  comes  to  the  letters  in  which  these 
matters  are  spoken  of — his  short  notes  only  speak  of  sights  and 
constant  occupation,  and  he  never  says  when  he  is  to  return. 

The  cold,  mild,  early  February  comes  in  quietly  ;  and  the 
nightly  rains  patter  upon  the  trees,  and  swell  the  burn  to 
hoarseness,  and  plash  in  the  swollen  river.  In  the  morning, 
when  the  feeble  sunshine  falls  dimly  upon  the  lawn,  and  its 
flower  borders,  Violet  and  Katie  rejoice  over,  here  and  there, 
a  golden  or  purple  crocus,  and  eagerly  point  out  the  buds 
swelling  on  the  trees  ;  but  at  night  it  is  always  rain,  strik- 
ing on  the  bare  branches,  and  filling  the  whole  air  with  a 
sound  of  mysterious  footsteps  passing  to  and  fro  around  the 
lonely  house.  And  within  the  house  they  all  grow  very  still 
— they  all  listen  for  Harry's  step,  for  Harry's  call ;  and  their 
hearts  tremble,  and  their  frames  shiver,  as  every  night  they 
think  he  will  return. 

But  February  is  nearly  past,  and  a  March  gale,  impatient 
of  the  slow  progress  of  the  year,  has  sprung  up  among  the  hills 
before  his  time,  and  rends  the  clouds  over  Demeyet,  tossing 
them  scornfully  to  the  east  and  to  the  west,  when  at  last  they 
hear  Harry  come  home.  And  he  does  not  come  unexpectedly  ; 
but  has  written  before,  stating  day  and  hour,  which  he  reli- 
giously keeps.  His  dress  is  worn,  and  out  of  order  ;  his  shining 
new  portmanteau  frayed  and  dim,  some  articles  of  its  contents 
lost,  and  almost  all  injured  ;  but  he  says  nothing  of  excuse  or 
apology  for  his  long  delay,  and  is  fretted  and  irritated  only 
when  he  hears  of  its  results,  liberally  blaming  everybody  con- 
cerned. However,  by  and  by,  everything  goes  on  again — 
goes  on  after  a  fashion,  languidly,  and  without  success ;  for 
Harry  no  longer  cares  about  his  fields. 


HARRY    MUIR.  221 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

....  Lot  them  go, 
To  ear  the  land  that  hath  some  hope  to  grow, 
For  I  have  none. 

King  Eichard  II. 

It  is  the  seed  time — the  time  of  hope.  The  lawn  at  Allen- 
ders  is  traced  with  au  outline  of  living  gold,  crocuses  cluster- 
ing up  like  children  out  of  the  fresh  awakened  soil ;  and  day 
by  day  the  brown  husks  swell  upon  the  trees,  and  the  fields 
add  pile  by  pile  to  their  velvet  mantle.  Your  heart  leaps 
when  you  stand  in  the  morning  sunshine,  and  hear  the  burn 
call  to  the  river,  and  the  river,  with  its  happy  voice  pass  on 
to  the  great  sea.  And  all  along  this  highway  through  which 
the  children  pass  to  school,  the  hedges  put  out  timid  leaves, 
venturing  upon  the  chill,  which  in  the  morning  brightness  bid 
their  lingering  neighbours  courage  ;  and  down  among  the  long 
dewy  grass,  you  can  find  here  and  there  an  early  primrose, 
half  timid,  half  triumphant,  holding  up  its  delicate  chalice  to 
receive  the  dew  of  heaven.  The  cows  are  marching  gravely  to 
their  sweet  pastures,  the  little  "  herds  "  straying  after  them, 
with  all  the  winter's  "  schulin  "  over,  perchance  to  be  dreamt 
upon  through  these  meditative  silent  days,  perchance  to  spring 
up  in  songs,  like  the  natural  voices  of  the  springs  that  run 
among  the  hills,  perchance  to  be  merrily  forgotten  ;  but  cheer- 
ful voices  ring  about  the  land,  and  tender  sunshine  glistens  on 
Demayet.  and  an  odour  and  fragrance  of  sweet  Hope,  makes 
the  wide  atmosphere  blessed.  Sweet  Hope  !  inheritance  and 
portion  of  human  hearts,  which  God  gives  not  his  very  angels, 
but  only  unto  us. 

Ah,  Hope — good  Hope — God's  tenderest  angel ! — coming 
back  with  the  morning  light  to  hearts  which  believed  in  the 
darkness,  that  thou  wert  gone  for  ever ! — opening  all  doors, 
however  barred,  and  when  one  hides  his  face  from  thee,  touch- 
ing him  with  wonderful  touches,  earnest  and  wistful,  so  that 
he  cannot  choose  but  look  in  thy  sweet  face  again.  Not 
always  bright,  not  always  gently  pensive — desperate  some- 
times, and  fearful  to  look  upon,  seeing  nought  before  thee  but 
a  possibility;  and  sometimes  looking  down,  solemn  and  grave, 
upon  places  which  thou  hast  been  constrained  to  leave,  and 


222  HARRY    MUIR. 

whence  faces  of  agony  gaze  up  to  thee,  clutching  at  the  skirts 
of  thy  garments,  hoping  against  Hope  ! 

The  year  passed  on,  the  flowers  blossomed,  the  early  trees 
began  to  shake  out  their  leaves  about  the  house  of  AUenders 
— the  odour  of  primroses  came  in  at  the  door,  the  voices  of 
children  made  the  walls  ring,  and  youth  was  with  them  all,  to 
beguile  them  into  careless  faith ;  but  Hope,  hooded  and 
veiled  as  for  a  journey,  and  dwelling  no  longer  with  them  in 
their  chambers,  stood  on  the  threshold  ready  to  depart. 
Again  and  again  the  dim  face  turned,  as  if  to  stay,  reluctant 
and  loth  to  loose  her  garments  from  their  eager  hands ;  but 
she  never  entered  freely  to  dwell  with  them  again. 

The  works  went  on  with  intermitting  energy :  now  alto- 
gether neglected,  now  forced  forward  with  spasmodic  exertions. 
The  labourers  at  Maidlin  grew  pinched  and  care-worn,  exposed 
to  a  capricious  authority,  which  sometimes  left  them  idle  for 
a  week  or  two,  and  then  poured  upon  their  hands  arrears  of 
labour,  which  it  was  now  too  late  to  accomplish  well.  The 
wives  murmured  and  recalled  the  steady  "  wage  "  which  the 
old  farmer  gave ;  the  men  lounged  round  the  Cross,  and 
shook  their  heads,  and  prophesied  ruin ;  the  little  shop  newly 
opened,  languished,  and  its  keeper  vainly  lamented  the  folly 
which  brought  him  to  Maidlin.  Sober  agriculturists  looking 
on,  not  without  a  quiet  satisfaction  in  the  truth  of  their  own 
predictions,  settled  into  their  old  quietness  with  a  word  of 
pity  for  Harry — poor  Harry  !  His  new  farm  buildings,  built 
at  great  cost,  stood  empty  and  useless ;  his  farm-manager,  too, 
cautious  to  proceed  by  himself,  wandered  about  whole  days  to 
consult  AUenders,  and  when  he  could  not  find  him,  or  found 
him  indisposed  to  enter  upon  necessary  business,  went  home 
in  irritation  and  disgust — went  home  to  find  Gilbert  AUen- 
ders established  in  his  respectable  house,  corrupting  his  young 
son  and  offending  his  daughters :  and  Armstrong,  like  the 
labourers,  shook  his  head,  and  sighed  a  heavy  sigh  for  poor 
Harry. 

Within  the  house  of  AUenders  they  were  all  very  silent. 
Martha,  making  no  comment  upon  Harry's  life,  tried  to  blind 
her  eyes,  and  take  out  of  them  the  vigilant  jealous  love  which 
would  not  be  deluded.  Poor  little  Agnes,  dispirited  and  pale, 
went  about  the  house  with  her  baby,  forgetting  all  her  girlish 
songs  and  laughter.  Rose,  wearying  and  sickened  of  the 
dreams  which  had  been  her  sole  solace,  worked  on  in  silence, 
and  never  cared  to  stir  abroad;  and  merry  little  Katie  Calder, 


IIAKIIV    MUIK.  223 

the  only  free  heart  among  them,  could  not  comprehend  the 
vague  glooin  which  so  often  overpowered  Lettie — for  Lottie's 
dreary  thoughts  had  returned  to  her  again. 

'-  Lettie.  dinnae  be  sae  dull,"  pleaded  Katie  Calder ; 
'•  naebod}'  ever  sings  or  says  a  word  now — naebody  but  Allen- 
ders,  and  the  doctor,  when  he  comes ;  but  I  dinna  like  the 
doctor,  Violet,  and  they  canna  bide  him  at  Maidlin  Cross." 

"  I  think  he's  a  bad  man,"  said  Violet,  decidedly — and  she 
clenched  her  hand,  and  stamped  her  little  foot  upon  Dragon's 
stair. 

'•  Ay,  bairns,"  said  Dragon :  ''  and  I  would  like  to  hear 
somebody  explain  in  a  sensible  way  what  gies  him  such  a  grip 
o'  Mr.  Hairy.  You'll  no  ken,  Missie ;  you're  ower  wee ;  but 
if  there  was  the  like  of  Boston,  or  the  young  lad  Livingstone, 
that  converted  sae  mony  hunder  folk  on  the  Monday  of  the 
preachings  at  the  kirk  of  Shotts,  or  John  Welsh,  that  wore  the 
very  stanes  with  his  praying,  to  the  fore  now,  I  wouldna  care 
to  take  my  fit  in  my  hand  and  gang  away  to  ask  their  counsel: 
for,  ye  see,  Mr.  Hairy's  a  different  man  from  yon — a  very 
different  kind  o'  man — and  how  the  like  of  this  chield  has 
gotten  such  maistry  over  him  is  a  miracle  to  me.  I  kent 
within  mysel  it  was  an  ill  sign  when  they  ca'd  him  Hairy. 
There's  ne'er  been  a  Hairy  Allenders  from  Leddy  Violet's 
time  till  now." 

Lettie  would  not  speak  of  family  concerns  even  to  Dragon. 
She  had  already  the  instinctive  pride  which  hides  the  wound 
in  its  own  breast,  and  dies  rather  than  complain  ;  so  she 
changed  the  subject  rapidly. 

"  Dragon,  you  never  told  us  the  story  about  the  laird  that 
planted  the  oak ;  and  I  thought  myself,  when  I  was  at  the 
waterside,  that  I  heard  it  groan ;  but  how  could  it  groan, 
Dragon,  at  the  season  the  man  was  killed?  How  could  it  ken 
the  seasons,  and  it  only  a  tree  ?" 

"  It's  just  because  ye  have  nae  knowledge,  Missie,"  said 
Dragon.  "  There's  me  mysel  noo,  an  auld  man.  I'm  aye 
cauld,  and  aye  creeping  to  my  bit  spunk  of  fire — ye  might 
say  how  should  I  ken  the  seasons ;  but  the  oak  has  its  fit 
constant  in  the  earth,  and  its  head  to  the  sky,  and  hears  the 
water  every  day,  and  feels  the  rain  and  the  sun,  and  kens  when 
to  put  forth  its  first  leaves,  and  when  to  let  them  fa',  better 
than  the  wisest  man  that  ever  lived  upon  this  earth.  And 
weel  may  it  groan,  the  auld  oak — it's  langer  in  the  service  of 
the  family  than  me;  and  do  you  ye  think  I  dinna  groaii 
mony  a  time,  to  see  a  fine  lad  like  Mr.  Hairy  led  away  ?  " 


224  HARRY    MUIR. 

"  Dragon,  he's  my  Harry  ! "  cried  little  Violet,  in  a  sud- 
den passion,  stamping  her  foot  again  violently  on  the  stones, 
while  the  tears  fell  down  her  cheeks,  and  quivering  lip  and 
dilating  nostril  bore  witness  to  the  force  of  her  feelings. 
'•  He's  our  Harry — he's  my  Harry,  Dragon  !  and  I  wish  God 
would  take  me — oh,  I  wish  God  would  put  me  in  a  grave, 
my  lane,  and  kill  me,  if  He  would  keep  Harry  well !  " 

And  the  tears  poured  down  over  Violet's  cheeks,  and  she 
dashed  her  hand  into  the  air,  and  cried  aloud. 

Poor  little  Lettie  !  many  an  elder,  many  a  wiser,  never  a 
more  loving  heart  has  lost  itself  in  such  another  agony,  chafing 
against  that  inscrutable  providential  will,  which  we  call 
fate. 

Katie  Calder  looked  on  with  wonder  and  dismay.  Honest 
little  Katie  could  not  comprehend  what  this  strange  emotion 
was ;  but  with  her  natural  instinct  she  made  instant  endea- 
vours to  "  divert  "  her  little  friend.  And  Dragon  looked  at 
Violet  with  his  wandering  light  blue  eyes,  like  a  man  half 
awakened  from  a  dream ;  but  as  the  child's  highly-wrought 
feelings  subsided,  and  she  sat  down  on  the  steps  and  wept,  he 
fell  back  into  his  old  torpor.  You  could  almost  have  thought 
that  this  strange  voice  of  passion  in  the  child  had  rung  back 
through  the  waste  of  years,  and  lighted  upon  the  man's  heart 
which  lay  sleeping  in  Adam  Comrie's  breast. 

Eh,  Lettie,  Willie  Paterson's  broken  his  leg,"  said  Katie 
Calder.  "  It  was  on  the  big  slide  between  Mrs.  Cogan's  and 
Maidlin,  and  a'  the  boys  play  at  his  mother's  window  now,  to 
let  him  hear  them  when  he's  lying  in  his  bed.  It  was  little 
Johnnie  Paxton  that  told  me.  Dragon,  when  he  came  to  the 
kitchen  to  see  Mysie. 

"  Willie  Paterson's  a  fine  laddie  of  himsel,"  said  Dragon, 
"  and  has  a  great  notion  of  you,  Missie ;  but  mind,  he's  only  a 
puir  widow's  son,  and  besides  he's  gotten  in  among  some  muckle 
ill  callants,  and  they're  leading  him  away." 

"  Dragon,"  said  Lettie  gravely,  "  when  folks  are  led  away, 
are  they  not  doing  ill  themselves  ?  Is  it  a'  the  blame  of  the  one 
that  leads  them  away,  and  no  their  ain,  Dragon  ?  " 

"  Weeld,  I'll  just  tell  ye  a  story,  Missie,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  When  I  was  a  young  lad,  I  had  ance  a  brother,  and  he  was 
easy  beguiled.  So  a  sodger  out  of  the  town  got  him,  and 
courted  at  him,  and  garred  him  drink,  and  led  him  into  every 
kind  of  evil,  till  the  poor  callant  lost  his  employ,  and  listed, 
and  ga'ed  away  across  the  sea  to  the  war.     By  a'  accounts  he 


HARRY    MUIR.  226 

was  little  steadier  when  he  was  away,  than  he  had  been  at 
hame,  though  he  had  a  guid  heart  for  a'  that,  and  was  aye 
kind  to  his  friends ;  and  at  the  end  of  the  war  he  came  back 
just  as  simple  as  ever  he  was,  with  a  sma'  pension,  and  as 
many  wounds  as  might  have  served  a  regiment.  He  wasna 
weel  hame  when  up  turned  this  deevil  of  a  sodger  again — 
where  the  tane  was,  ye  were  sure  to  find  the  tither — and  with- 
in a  year,  G-eorge  Comrie  was  dead  and  buried.  Now  ye've 
baith  guid  judgments  to  be  bairns — wha  was't  that  should 
bear  the  blame  ?  " 

"  It  was  the  sodger,  Dragon,"  said  Katie  Calder,  with  in- 
stant determination. 

Violet  said  nothing.  She  was  pulling  away  the  withered 
fibres  of  ivy  from  Dragon's  wall. 

"  I  think  folk  shouldna  be  led  away,"  said  Lettie  slowly, 
after  a  considerable  pause :  '•  and  you  never  say  folk  are  led 
away  when  they  do  good  things,  Dragon.  I  think  it  was  his 
blame  too,  as  well  as  the  other  man's." 

•'  He's  in  his  grave  this  forty  year,"  said  Dragon,  "  but  I 
mind  him  better  than  I  mind  his  nameson,  Geordie  Paxton, 
that  I  saw  only  yestreen.  Maybe  I  should  have  ga'en  sooner 
to  my  account  mysel,  and  wan  beside  a'  my  ain  friends  ;  but 
for  a'  I'm  sae  auld,  bairns,  I  never  crave  to  be  away ;  and 
mony  a  young  head  I've  seen  laid  in  the  mools,  since  my  ain 
was  as  white  as  it  is  this  day.  No  that  I  am  bragging  o'  that, 
Missie — but  I'm  auld,  and  I  never  feel  ony  dinnles  noo.  I 
think  my  heart  has  slippit  down  some  gate,  where  trouble  can 
never  get  a  rug  at  it ;  and  I'm  aye  pleased  with  the  light  and 
the  guid  day,  and  wi'  a  book  whiles,  and  a  crack,  and  my 
meat  regular,  and  naething  to  fash  me  ;  and  I  see  nae  reason 
I  have  for  deeing,  though  I  am  an  auld  man." 

Strange,  broken  gleams  shone  out  of  Dragon's  wandering 
eyes  as  he  spoke,  nodding  his  head  feebly  with  a  half-palsied 
motion — fitful  glances,  out  of  his  torpor,  of  the  heart  and 
spirit  which  long  ago  made  him  a  man  ;  but  the  soul  dwelt  be- 
numbed in  its  wintry  habitation,  like  some  forlorn  dweller 
among  the  hills  whose  hut  the  snow  has  buried — and  resign- 
ed itself  to  the  slumbrous  spell  without  strength  to  struggle 
into  consciousness  of  anything  higher  than  the  warmth  and 
ease  in  which  it  lay. 


10" 


226  HARRY    MDIR. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

I  have  heard  when  one  lay  dying,  after  long 
And  steadfast  contemplation  of  sure  death, 
That  sudden  there  would  spring  delicious  hope, 
And  boastful  confidence  of  health  restored. 
Into  the  heart  that  had  not  threescore  throbs 
Of  its  worn  pulse  to  spend- 
There  is  a  madness  that  besets  the  verge 
Of  full  destruction— madness  that  hath  wild  dreams 
Of  victory  and  triumph. 

"  How's  the  farm  getting  on,  Harry  ?  Armstrong  doesn't  seem 
very  jubilant  about  it.  What's  to  become  of  the  land  ?  "  said 
Gilbert  AUenders. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  little  round  turret-room,  looking 
out  from  the  open  door  upon  the  lands  of  AUenders,  and  many 
a  fair  acre  besides.  A  dewy  May  evening  was  shedding  sweet- 
ness and  peace  over  it  all,  and  through  the  whole  wide  coun- 
try before  them  the  setting  sun  found  out,  here  and  there,  a 
running  water,  and  made  all  the  hills  aware  of  it  with  a  tri- 
umphant gleam.  Green  corn  rustling  in  the  breeze,  and  gar- 
dens gay  with  blossoms,  with  here  and  there  a  red  field  of 
new  ploughed  earth,  or  a  rich  luxuriant  strip  of  meadow  to 
diversify  them,  spread  round  on  every  side ;  and  the  hum  of 
animate  life,  the  indistinct  farmyard  voice,  the  din  of  playing 
children,  came  to  them  dreamily,  upon  air  which  told  you  in 
loving  whispers,  of  the  hawthorn  trees  in  those  deep  lanes 
below. 

In  Harry's  eye  shines  an  unusual  gaiety ;  and  the  confi- 
dence which  sometimes  deserts  him,  leaving  him  in  such  mo- 
rose and  sullen  melancholy,  has  returned  to-day.  Not  all 
natural  is  this  renewal ;  for  excitement,  which  makes  Martha 
crush  her  hands  together,  and  sends  Agnes  away  secretly  to 
weep,  animates  him  with  its  passing  gleam  ;  but  still  he  has 
command  of  himself,  and  is  above  Gilbert's  sneers. 

"  What's  to  become  of  the  land  ?  It  will  do  famously,  of 
course  !  "  said  Harry  ;  •'  and  it's  only  Armstrong's  caution 
that  makes  him  quiet  about  it.  If  Fairly  remains  in  the  mar- 
ket for  a  year  or  two,  I  think  I  will  buy  it,  Gilbert.  They 
say  it  once  belonged  to  the  estate  of  AUenders,  and  Hoolie 
too,  which  is  now  Sir  John's.  I  should  like  to  bring  the  land 
up  to  what  it  was  in  the  old  times;  and  I  say,  Gibbie,  man. 


HARRY    MUIR.  22'il 

you  shall  have  a  house,  a  regular  red  pill-box,  with  just  such 
a  surgery  as  will  suit  you ;  and  settle  down,  and  have  an  ap- 
pointment at  once,  to  doctor  all  my  tenants.  I  should  have 
quite  a  band  of  retainers  if  Fairly  were  added  to  Allenders." 

"  It's  very  well  you  got  the  estate,  Harry,"  said  Gilbert, 
with  a  sneer,  which  poor  Harry  could  not  see.  "  If  it  had 
fallen  into  our  hands,  it  might  have  remained  as  it  was,  till 
the  end  of  time,  and  neither  been  improved  nor  increased. 
Thank  you  for  the  pill-box,  Harry ;  I  always  knew  you  were 
a  warm  friend.     I'll  depend  on  getting  it,  I  promise  you." 

"  And  so  you  shall,  Grilbert,"  said  Harry  ;  •'  but  I'm  not 
quite  prepared  to  buy  Fairly  now.  I've  ordered  home  a  great 
stock  of  fine  cattle.  I  don't  know  if  we'll  have  room  for  them 
all :  plough  horses — magnificent  fellows  ! — and  the  finest  cows 
that  ever  were  seen  in  the  respectable  Carse  of  Stirling  ;  but 
they  take  a  lot  of  money,  all  these  things ;  and  I  should  be 
very  glad  to  have  the  harvest  over." 

•'The  harvest?  But  this  first  year,  I  suppose,  you  don't 
expect  very  much  from  it  %  "  said  Gilbert. 

"  Don't  I  ?  Well,  we'll  see,"  said  Harry,  laughing ;  "  but 
I  must  be  economical  this  year,  Gilbert — going  on  at  this 
rate  won't  do.  I've  spent  a  small  fortune  this  year  ;  to  be 
sure,  it  was  on  the  land,"  said  Harry,  musing ;  "  cattle,  sta- 
bles, byres,  Armstrong  and  all  his  labourers,  not  to  speak  of 
the  plough  graith,  and  the  harrows,  and  the  threshing-machine, 
and  all  the  things  they  have  bothered  me  about ;  but  we  must 
be  thrifty  this  year." 

••  I  believe  you've  no  memorandum  of  the  money  you  lent 
me.  I  must  make  out  one  for  you  to-night,  Harry,"  said  Gil- 
bert, carelessly.     "  Do  you  know  how  much  it  is  ?  " 

••  Not  I,"  said  the  lofty  Harry ;  "  nor  do  I  care  to  know. 
Never  mind  memorandums — we  know  each  other  too  well  for 
that." 

And  Harry,  whose  capital  had  shrunk  to  the  final  thou- 
sand, and  whose  last  expensive  purchase  remained  to  be  paid 
for,  led  the  way  down  stairs  in  high  glee,  feeling  himself  al- 
ready the  second  founder  of  the  family,  and  rich  in  patriarchal 
wealth.  At  the  gate,  Agnes  and  Rose  were  looking  out 
eagerly  along  the  road,  from  which  a  tramp  of  hoofs  pene- 
trated into  the  very  drawing-room  of  Allenders.  Little  Katie 
Calder  stood  upon  the  summit  of  the  low  wall,  with  one  foot 
on  a  tree,  and  Martha  a  little  behind  them,  looked  out  with 
much  gravity  and  concern. 


228  HARRY    MUIR. 

Great  work-horses,  with  ribbons  at  their  ears,  and  elaborate 
decorated  tails,  were  marching  with  heavy  hoofs  into  Harry's 
stables  ;  and  the  lowing  of  Harry's  kine  from  the  fields  sum- 
moned the  new  milkmaids  to  lead  them  home.  You  would 
have  thought  it  the  most  prosperous  of  homesteads,  with  its 
grey,  thin  house,  and  abrupt  turret,  telling  of  long  descent 
and  elder  times ;  its  superannuated  Dragon  witnessing  to  the 
family  kindliness  which  would  not  abandon  an  ancient  servant ; 
its  great  farm  ranges,  new  and  shining,  which  testified,  or  seem- 
ed to  testify,  to  present  energy  and  wealth  ;  and  its  youthful 
family  crowded  about  the  gate,  from  pretty  little  matron  Agnes 
to  the  meditative  Lettie,  standing  by  Dragon's  side  in  the  road 
without.  Prosperous,  peaceful,  full  of  natural  joys  and  plea- 
sant progress  ;  but  Harry's  flushed,  excited  face,  and  the  coarse 
pretension  of  Gilbert  Allenders  came  in  strangely  to  break  the 
charm. 

"  Come  along,  Agnes,  and  see  them,"  said  Harry,  loudly. 
•'  I  told  you  they  were  splendid  fellows,  Gilbert.  Come,  never 
mind  your  bonnet ;  and  Gilbert  will  give  you  his  arm,  Rosie 
— come  along." 

"  Wait  till  I  get  a  shawl  on — for  the  servants,  Harry," 
said  Agnes,  freeing  herself  from  his  grasp. 

"  What  about  the  servants  ?  it's  only  at  your  own  door," 
said  Harry,  securing  her  arm  in  his  own ;  '•  and  the  light 
shines  in  your  hair,  Agnes,  very  prettily.  Come  away,  little 
wife." 

And  Harry  went  on  singing — 

"  There's  gowd  in  your  garters,  Marion, 
And  siller  on  your  white  hause  bane," 

to  the  secret  misery  of  Lettie,  who  thought  he  was  humiliating 
himself,  and  to  the  great  wonder  and  astonishment  of  Katie 
Calder. 

But  Rose  drew  firmly  back,  and  would  not  go.  Rose  was 
very  near  hating  Gilbert  Allenders ;  so  he  went  to  the  other 
side  of  Agnes,  and  they  walked  to  the  stables  together — poor 
little  Agnes,  nearly  choking  all  the  way  with  wounded  pride, 
and  shame,  and  fear,  lest  Harry  might  be  ofiFended  in  spite  of 
her  compliance. 

"  Why  has  Lady  Dunlop  never  called  on  you  again?  and 
what  has  become  of  that  pedantic  son  of  hers  ?  "  said  Harry, 
when  they  had  returned,  and  were  taking  the  tea  which  Agnes 


HARRY    MUIR.  229 

hoped  would  subdue  him.  "  It's  three  or  four  months  now 
since  you  called  on  them,  Agnes — why  does  not  her  ladyship 
return  your  visit?  and  I  should  just  like  to  know  what's  be- 
come of  young  Dunlop." 

''  Hush,  Harry  ! — I  don't  know — I  can't  tell,"  said  Agnes, 
very  humbly.  ''  Young  Mr.  Dunlop  has  never  been  here  since 
that  time — you  mind,  Martha — after  Harry  came  back  from 
London." 

••  And  why  doesn't  the  fellow  come  again  1  "  said  Harry. 
'•  A  pretty  man  he  is,  to  think  we're  to  keep  on  good  terms 
with  him,  when  he  never  does  anything  to  keep  it  up  himself 
And  what's  become  of  these  Nettlehaugh  people,  and  Haigh 
of  Foggo  Barns  ?  I  suppose  it's  your  fault,  Agnes  ;  you've 
been  neglecting  the  proper  forms — you've  never  called  on  them, 
I  suppose  1  " 

"  Yes,  Harry,"  said  again  the  very  low,  timid  voice  of 
Agnes,  '•  you  have  forgotten — you  went  with  me  once  to  both 
Foggo  and  Nettlehaugh,  and  Martha  and  I  went  another  time, 
and  they  have  never  called  since." 

'•  I  should  like  to  know  what  they  mean,"  said  Harry  loud- 
ly, his  face  flushing  to  a  deep  crimson.  "  I  suppose  they  think 
we're  not  so  good  as  them.  Never  mind,  Agnes  ;  never  mind, 
my  little  wife — you'll  be  a  richer  woman  yet,  and  see  your 
son  a  greater  man  than  any  half-dozen  of  these  little  lairdies. 
I'll  have  all  the  work,  you  know,  and  I'll  take  it  gladly  ;  but 
little  Harry  shall  be  heir  to  better  land  than  young  Dunlop 
will  ever  see.  A  set  of  nobodies  setting  up  for  something  .  I 
should  like  to  know  what  they  mean." 

''  They  were  very  kind  at  first,"  murmured  Agnes,  scarcely 
able  to  restrain  the  tears  with  which  her  eyes  were  weighed 
down. 

'•  They  were  very  kind  at  first,"  repeated  Martha  distinct- 
ly, as  she  rose  to  leave  the  room  ;  "  and  to-morrow,  when  you 
are  alone,  Harry,  I  will  tell  you  what  they  mean." 

Never  since  she  entered  Allenders  had  Martha's  voice  had 
this  tone  before.  Her  brother  started  and  turned  to  look  after 
her,  with  something  of  the  mingled  look — defiance,  reverence, 
respect  and  pain — which  they  all  knew  on  his  face  long  ago  ; 
but  Martha  was  gone  without  another  word.  It  had  a  singu- 
lar effect  on  Harry.  He  sat  down  at  the  table,  leaned  his 
head  upon  his  hand,  and  gazed  with  fixed  eyes  on  the  vacant 
space  before  him  ;  but  he  scarcely  spoke  again  that  night. 


280  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 


Nor  can  thy  shame  give  physic  to  my  grief, 
Tho'  thou  repent ;  yet  I  have  still  the  loss. 

The  ofifender's  son-ow^  lends  but  weak  relief 
To  him  that  bears  the  strong  offence's  cross. 


As  a  decrepit  father  takes  delight 

To  see  his  active  child  do  deeds  of  youth, 
So  I,  made  lame  by  fortune's  dearest  spite. 

Take  all  my  comfort  of  thy  worth  and  truth. 

Shakspeaee— (Sonnets). 

The  next  morning  Harry  sat  in  sullen  silence  at  the  breakfast - 
table,  scarcely  raising  his  head.  Agnes  and  Rose,  'with  falter- 
ing, timid  voices,  never  ceased  addressing  him.  They  pressed 
upon  him  the  food  which  he  could  not  taste,  they  asked  his 
opinion  with  tearful  eyes  and  a  visible  tremor  on  the  most 
trifling  matters,  they  laid  caressing  hands  upon  his  shoulders 
when  they  passed  behind  his  chair  ;  but  these  affectionate  acts 
were  very  visible.  They  could  not  conceal  the  suppressed  ex- 
citement of  their  great  anxiety,  nor  their  consciousness  that 
another  crisis  had  come  in  Harry's  fate. 

And  even  little  Lettie  stirred  on  her  chair  restlessly,  like 
a  startled  bird,  and  felt  her  heart  leaping  at  her  very  throat, 
and  scarcely  could  speak  for  her  parched  lips  and  the  strong 
beating  of  this  same  little  anxious  heart.  And  no  one  knew  what 
heavy  throbs  beat  against  Martha's  breast — no  longer  flutter- 
ing and  tremulous,  but  heavy  as  a  death-knell.  She  said  little, 
it  is  true,  but  still  she  addressed  Harry  sometimes  as  usual — 
as  usual — perhaps  with  a  tenderer  tone — though  Harry  made 
no  answer,  save  in  monosyllables,  to  any  of  them  all ;  and 
Martha  very  speedily  rose  from  her  place,  and  left  the  room. 

Another  spasmodic  attempt  at  conversation  was  made  by 
Agnes  and  Rose,  but  their  own  hearts  beat  so  loudly  in  their 
ears,  that  they  trembled  for  Harry  hearing  them.  Poor 
Harry  !  through  those  long,  slow  moments  which  were  hours 
to  them,  he  hung  idly  over  the  table,  trifling  with  his  baby's 
coral — and  it  was  not  until  all  endeavours  at  speech  had 
fiiiled,  and  a  total  silence — a  silence  of  the  most  intense  and 
painful  excitement  to  his  companions — had  fallen  upon  them, 
that  rousing  himself  with  an  eff"ort,  and  putting  back  the  hair 
from  his  damp  forehead,  he  slowly  rose  and  went  away. 


HARRY    MUIR.  231 

Katie  Calder,  not  understanding  all  this,  and  slightly  de- 
pressed by  it,  had  just  stolen  out  of  the  room  to  gather  up 
their  books  for  school ;  so  no  one,  save  the  wistful  Lettie,  was 
left  with  the  young  wife  and  Rose.  They  sat  still  for  a  short 
time  in  silence,  eagerly  listening  to  Harry's  footsteps  as  he 
passed  through  the  hall  to  his  little  library,  and  closed  the 
door ;  and  then  Agnes  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  side,  and 
gasped  for  breath,  and  said  in  a  voice  between  a  cry  and  a 
whisper : 

"  What  will  she  say  to  him  ?  Oh,  what  will  Martha  say 
to  Harry,  Rose  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  tell — I  cannot  tell,"  said  Rose,  wringing  her 
hands.  '•  Oh,  if  it  were  only  over  !  I  could  break  my  heart 
when  I  look  at  Harry — I  could  break  my  heart !  "  And 
Rose  put  her  hands  over  her  face  in  just  such  a  passion- 
ate burst  of  restrained  sobbing  as  had  come  upon  Violet 
before. 

After  some  time,  they  heard  the  slow  footstep  of  Martha 
coming  down  the  stairs,  and  both  of  them  ran  to  the  door  to 
whisper  an  entreaty  to  her  to  "be  gentle  with  Harry.  Poor 
Harry  !  "     They  could  scarcely  say  it  for  tears. 

When  Martha  entered  the  library,  Harry,  lounging  in  the 
window-seat,  was  languidly  turning  a  paper.  He,  poor  Harry  ! 
was  little  less  excited  than  they  were,  and  heats  and  chills 
came  over  him,  and  his  eye  fell  under  Martha's  mother  eye ; 
but  the  second  nature  which  had  risen  like  a  cloud  over  that 
boy's  heart  which  still  moved  within  him,  made  him  stubborn 
and  defiant  still.  When  she  came  in,  he  threw  down  his 
paper  with  a  slight  start,  as  of  impatience  ;  and  turning  to 
her,  rapidly  a.sked  :  "  Well,  Martha,  what  have  you  to  say 
tome?" 

"  Am  I  to  have  liberty  to  say  it,  Harry  1  " 

"  What  folly  to  ask  me  such  a  question,"  said  Harry, 
angrily.  ''  Does  my  sister  need  to  make  a  formal  affair  of  it, 
like  this,  when  she  has  anything  to  say  to  me  ?  Sit  down, 
Martha,  and  don't  look  as  if  you  came  to  school  me  ;  I  may 
not  be  able  to  bear  that,  very  patiently,  and  I  should  be  very 
sorry  to  hurt  you.     Sit  down,  and  tell  me  what  it  is?  " 

Martha  sat  down  with  gathering  coldness  upon  her  face — 
coldness  of  the  face  alone,  a  mask  to  hide  very  different 
emotions. 

••  I  come  to-day  while  you  are  full  master  of  yourself,  and 
are  alone."   she  said,  with   slow  and   deliberate  emphasis — 


232  HARRY    MUIR. 

Harry  did  not  know  that  she  compelled  herself  to  speak  so 
lest  the  burning  tide  of  other  words  should  pour  forth  against 
her  will — "  to  answer  a  question  you  asked  yesterday.  You 
desired  to  know  what  your  neighbours  meant  by  ceasing  to 
seek  you  ;  Harry,  I  wish  to  tell  you  what  they  mean." 

Harry  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  as  if  about  to  speak, 
but  rapidly  turning  away  eyes  which  could  not  meet  the  steady 
gravity  of  hers,  he  took  up  his  paper,  and  without  looking  at 
it,  played  with  it  in  his  hand. 

^  They  mean,"  proceeded  Martha,  slowly, "  that  they  do  not 
choose  to  extend  the  courtesies  of  ordinary  life  to  one  who 
scorns  and  never  seeks,  the  ordinary  respect  which  is  every 
man's  right  who  lives  without  outward  oflFence  against  God 
or  man  ;  they  mean  that  they  cannot  pretend  to  honour  what 
you  have  set  yourself  to  disgrace ;  they  mean  that  the  name, 
the  house,  the  family,  which  you  can  resign  for  the  meanest 
of  earthly  pleasures,  have  no  claim  of  special  regard  upon 
them.  Your  life  is  known  in  every  peasant's  house  ;  they 
talk  of  you  at  the  firesides  of  your  labourers  :  they  say,  poor 
Allenders,  and  tell  each  other  how  you  are  led  away — Harry  ! 
I  ask  you  what  right  you  have  to  be  led  away  ?  You  tell  me 
you  are  not  a  child,  and  will  not  bear  to  be  schooled  by  me. 
What  right  have  you,  a  man — a  man,  Harry — to  suffer  any 
other  man  to  lead  you  into  evil?  And  this  is  what  your 
neighbours  mean." 

Harry  dashed  the  paper  from  him  in  sudden  passion. 
"And  what  right  have  you — what  right  have  you?  Martha, 
T  have  borne  much  :  what  right  have  you  to  speak  to  me  in 
such  words  as  these  ?  " 

"  God  help  me !  the  dearest  right  that  ever  mother  had," 
exclaimed  Martha,  no  longer  slowly ;  "  because  my  soul  has 
travailed  and  agonized ;  because  I  put  my  hopes  upon  you, 
Harry — my  hopes  that  were  once  shipwrecked,  to  be  cast  away 
again  !  Look  at  me,  mind  me  all  your  life,  boy,  before  you 
defy  me  !  Night  and  day,  sleeping  and  waking,  I  have  carried 
you  on  my  heart.  When  I  was  in  my  first  youth,  I  cried  with 
strong  crying,  and  pangs  such  as  you  never  knew,  for  power 
and  wealth,  and  to  win  it  with  my  hands.  Who  was  it  for, 
but  you  ?  Then  I  came  to  a  dearer  hope.  I  thought  you 
wold  win  it,  Harry  ;  and  I  would  eat  bread  out  of  your  hands, 
and  exult  in  you,  and  call  upon  the  heavens  and  the  earth  to 
see  that  you  were  mine.  What  of  my  hopes  ?  They  are  ill  to 
slay,  but  God  has  touched  them,  and  they  have  died  out  of  my 


HARRY    MUIR.  238 

heart.  /  have  failed,  and  you  have  failed,  and  there  is  no 
more  expectation  under  the  sun.  But  I  call  you  to  witness 
you  are  mine — bought  with  the  blood  of  my  tears  and  my 
travail — my  son,  Harry — my  son  !  " 

He  did  not  answer,  he  did  not  look  at  her,  but  only  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands. 

"  We  are  worsted,  but  we  need  not  be  destroyed,"  continued 
Martha.  "  I  accept  the  failure  that  is  past,  and  acquiesce  in 
it,  because  it  has  been  God's  will — but  God  never  wills  that 
we  should  fail  in  the  future,  Harry.  God  be  thanked  that  it 
lies  continually  before  us,  free  of  stain.  And  hope  is  hard  to 
me — maybe  it  is  because  my  tribulations  have  not  wrought 
patience,  that  experience  does  not  bring  me  hope.  But  I  will 
hope  again — I  will  make  another  venture ;  and  look  for  an- 
other harvest,  Harry,  if  you  will  bid  me  !  Not  like  the  last — 
God  forbid  that  it  should  be  like  the  last !  I  will  turn  my 
face  towards  the  needful  conquest  we  have  to  make — you  and 
me — and  hope  for  that,  though  it  is  greater  than  taking  a  city. 
But  Harry,  Harry,  I  cannot  bear  to  see  you  sinking — harder 
than  it  is  to  them,  who  are  weeping  for  you  yonder,  it  is  to  me 
who  cannot  shed  a  tear.      Harry,  am  I  to  hope  again  ?  " 

But  sad  and  terrible  was  the  gleam  in  Martha's  dry  strained 
eyes  ;  not  like  sunshine  but  like  lightning,  was  the  feverish 
hope  for  which  she  pleaded. 

And  Harry  rose  and  took  her  hand,  himself  trembling  with 
strong  emotion.  "  From  this  day  henceforth,"  he  vowed,  with 
a  choking  voice,  •'  never  more,  Martha,  never  more,  can  I  for- 
get myself,  and  them,  and  you." 

And  there  fell  upon  Martha  a  sudden  relief  of  weeping, 
such  as  her  eyes  had  not  known  for  months.  "  You  were  once 
my  boy,  my  bairn,  Harry,"  she  said,  with  a  strange  hysteric 
smile,  '•!  cannot  forget  that  you  were  my  bairn,  my  little 
brother — Harry — my  hope  !  " 

And  Harry  covered  his  face  once  more,  and  was  not  ashamed 
to  weep. 

Poor  Harry  !  for  ever  under  the  evil  which  had  crusted 
his  nature  over,  under  all  the  pride,  the  jealousy,  the  self- 
assertion  of  conscious,  remorseful,  unrepentant  sin,  the  boy's 
heart,  tender,  fresh  and  hopeful,  still  dwelt  in  his  breast.  Only 
God  can  reconcile  these  strange  contradictions ;  but  when  you 
reached  to  it — and  many  a  time  had  this  added  a  pang  to 
Martha's  sufferings — you  could  not  choose  but  deem  it  an  in- 
7wccnt  heart. 


234  HARRY    MUIR. 

By  and  by  Martha  left  the  room — left  him  there  to  medi- 
tate upon  this  and  on  the  past.  Poor  Harry's  heart  lightened  ; 
in  spite  of  himself,  his  attention  wandered  from  these  things 
of  solemn  weight  and  interest  to  little  Harry  playing  under 
the  walnut  tree.  Now  and  then,  it  is  true,  he  put  his  hand , 
over  his  eyes,  and  made  his  face  grave,  and  mused,  and  even 
prayed  ;  but  anon  his  mind  wandered  again.  The  great  ex- 
citement of  the  last  hour  sank  into  repose,  and  Harry  had 
seldom  been  so  easily  amused  with  the  little  stumbles  and 
misadventures  of  his  child.  At  the  other  window,  Agnes  and 
Rose,  unable  to  see  anything,  with  their  sick  hearts  and  tear- 
ful eyes,  sat  in  absorbed  silence,  looking  out  indeed,  but  with- 
out noticing  even  the  favourite  boy.  Above,  Martha  was 
kneeling  before  Grod,  in  prayer  which  wrung  not  her  heart  only, 
but  every  fibre  of  her  strained  frame.  IJpon  the  sunny  road 
without,  little  Lettie  went  silently  to  school,  wiping  a  tear  now 
and  then  from  her  cheek — all  for  Harry  ;  while  Harry  sat  in 
the  window  of  his  library,  the  cloud  gone  from  his  brow,  and  a 
smile  upon  his  lip,  watching  his  child  at  play — with  simple 
pleasure  and  interest,  as  if  he  himself  were  a  child. 

And  then  he  opened  the  window,  and  called  to  little  Har- 
ry. With  a  sudden  start,  Agnes  rose,  and  went  out  upon  the 
lawn  to  read  his  face.  His  face  was  cloudless,  smiling,  full  of 
quiet  satisfaction  and  repose  ;  and  he  had  already  begun  to 
play  with  the  child  at  the  window.  Agnes  had  only  time  to 
telegraph  that  all  was  well  to  Rose,  when  Harry  called  to  her 
to  get  her  bonnet  and  go  out  with  him.  With  joy  and  relief 
she  ran  into  the  house  to  obey,  and  Harry  met  her  at  the 
library  door,  and  said  he  wanted  a  little  rest  and  relaxation 
to-day,  and  that  she  must  persuade  Martha  and  Rose  to  let 
him  row  them  down  the  river  in  the  neglected  boat ;  and  Ag- 
nes went  up-stairs  singing,  and  half  weeping  for  joy. 


HARRY    MUIK.  236 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

Fair,  through  the  lattice  of  yon  cloud,  the  sun 
Throws  to  us,  half  in  stealth,  his  parting  smile. 
Night  comes  anon. 

It  was  June  weather  now — warm  and  full,  and  a  deep  peace 
had  fallen  over  Allenders.  Harry,  who  was  not  naturally 
temperate  in  anything,  was  almost  intemperate  in  his  reforma- 
tion now.  He  applied  himself  to  business  with  devotion,  had 
long  consultations  with  Armstrong  every  morning,  and  repulsed 
coldly  the  usual  familiarities  of  Grilbert  Allenders.  In  his 
library,  they  always  found  the  table  covered  with  estimates 
and  calculations,  with  expensive  schemes  for  thrift,  and  ela- 
borate economics  of  farming  ;  while  out  of  doors,  Harry  went 
blythely  about  his  fields  again,  conciliating  once  more  the 
half-alienated  favour  of  his  workmen,  and  regaining  for  him- 
self the  elastic  vigour  and  health,  which  had  begun  to  be 
shaken.  Agnes  sang  to  her  baby  all  day  long,  till  the  very 
air  within  the  house  grew  rich  with  ballad  fragments.  Rose, 
still  a  little  weary  in  her  heart,  and  longing  secretly  for  a  new 
beginning  to  her  old  dreams,  began  to  interest  herself  in  the 
pleasant  pursuits  of  free  young  womanhood,  and  forgot  the 
family  care,  as  well  as  her  own  individual  one.  Martha  sank 
back  quietly  into  a  temporary  repose — was  ill  for  a  few  days, 
and  afterwards  very  quiet — for  her  frame  had  been  shaken  by 
severe  exhaustion  ;  very  different  from  the  natural  good  hope 
of  common  life,  was  the  desperate  stake  for  which  she  played ; 
and  when  the  moment,  with  all  its  pent-up  and  restrained  ex- 
citement, was  past,  experience  lifted  its  cold,  prophetic  voice 
again,  and  she  could  not  choose  but  hear. 

But  the  gossips  at  Maidlin  Cross,  glad  to  return  to  their 
kindlier  opinion — for  Harry's  good  looks,  and  naturally  gra- 
cious manners,  gave  them  a  strong  prepossession  in  his  favour 
— congratulated  each  other  that  Allenders  was  steady  now, 
and  quite  another  man,  and  that  "  it  bid  to  be"  a  great  com- 
fort to  his  sister  and  his  wife — for  they  unconsciously  put 
Martha  before  Agnes,  doing  reverence  to  the  more  absorbing 
love.  And  young  Mr.  Dunlop,  seeing  Harry's  frank  face 
brightened  by  renewed  hope  and  wholesome  pleasure,  and 
hearing  how  sedulously  he  had  begun  to  attend  to  all  his  con- 


236  HARRY    MUIR. 

cerns,  was  smitten  with  remorse  for  his  rudeness,  and  brought 
his  mother  in  state  to  call  on  Mrs.  Allenders,  which  her  good- 
humoured  ladyship  would  have  done  months  ago  but  for  his 
restraining.  Prosperity  and  peace  returned  again,  as  it  seem- 
ed ;  and  Harry's  last  thousand  was  still  very  little  diminished. 

But  it  chanced  that  Cutlibert  Charteris  suddenly  looked 
in  upon  the  astonished  household,  on  the  very  day  of  Lady 
Dunlop's  call.  Cuthbert  did  not  know  that  this  call  had  a 
value  quite  separate  from  their  pleasure  in  itself,  to  the  family 
at  Allenders  ;  and  he  thought  the  tremulous  agitation  of  both 
Agnes  and  Rose  originated  in  a  cause  very  different  from  its 
real  one.  So  Cuthbert  was  cold,  constrained  and  unhappy  ; 
scarcely  able  to  conceal  his  contempt  of  Mr.  Dunlop,  and  re- 
solutely declining  to  remain,  even  for  a  single  night.  They, 
in  their  turn,  misunderstood  him  ;  they  thought  he  had  heard 
something  unfavourable  of  Harry,  and  while  they  redoubled 
their  attentions  to  himself,  they  overwhelmed  him  with  refer- 
ences to  Harry's  goodness,  and  stories  of  the  kindness  with 
which  all  his  labourers,  and  the  little  group  of  cottar  wives  at 
Maidlin,  regarded  Allenders.  If  Cuthbert  had  been  sufficient- 
I3'  disengaged  from  his  own  engrossing  concerns,  these  con- 
tinual defences  would  have  made  him  fear  :  as  it  was,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  but  the  Rose,  which  had  never  seemed  so 
fair  in  his  eyes  as  now,  when  he  convinced  himself  that  another 
was  about  to  bear  it  away. 

Rose  did  not  know  what  to  think  of  Cuthbert.  Had  he 
been  indifferent  to  her  all  along  ?  But  Rose,  with  a  natural 
pride  in  many  things,  conjoined  the  most  perfect  and  uncon- 
scious humility  in  her  estimate  of  herself;  that  he  should  be 
jealous,  never  entered  into  her  mind — it  was  far  easier  to 
believe  that  he  had  never  '•  cared  ; "  and  Rose  blushed  even  to 
acknowledge  to  herself  that  she  once  thought  he  "  cared,"  by 
doubting  it  now.  Yet  there  was  something  in  Cuthbert's 
eyes — something  in  the  full,  grave  look  she  sometimes  met, 
which  filled  Rose  with  a  vague  thrill  of  emotion  ;  and  when  he 
was  gone  she  remembered  this,  and  ceased  to  comment  upon 
the  rest. 

About  a  week  after  Cuthbert's  call,  Harry  went  to  Stirling, 
taking  Agnes  with  him.  They  were  going  on  business — to 
draw  money,  of  which  Agnes  claimed  a  considerable  portion 
for  her  household  expenses ;  and  Harry  himself,  to  the  great 
content  of  all,  had  invited  her  to  accompany  him.  They  were 
quite  at  ease  and  quite  at  home,  and  with  the  children,  who 


HARRY    MUIR.  23*7 

rejoiced  in  a  holiday,  had  taken  a  long  ramble  through  woods 
and  lanes  in  the  afternoon,  coming  home  laden  with  wild 
flowers.  Even  Martha,  amused  with  Katie's  radiant  pleasure, 
and  Violet's  mingled  reverie  and  mirth,  had  brightened  quite 
insensibly,  and  Rose  was  as  gay  as  the  little  girls  themselves. 
They  were  all  seated  under  the  walnut  tree  on  the  lawn  when 
Harry  and  Agnes  returned,  and  not  a  shadow  crossed  any  of 
them,  except  the  ill-favoured  one  of  Gilbert  Allenders,  as  he 
came  in  at  the  gate,  resolved  to  stay  to  dinner  whether  he  was 
asked  or  no. 

But  the  dinner  past,  and  still  Harry  kept  Gilbert  steadily 
at  a  distance.  They  could  not  sufficiently  admire  his  strength 
and  resolution,  and  how  bravely  he  resisted  the  tempter. 
Gilbert  himself  seemed  slightly  surprised  and  baffled  ;  and  not 
a  single  disconcerted  glance  was  lost  on  the  rejoicing  Agnes, 
with  whom  there  was  only  a  single  step  between  the  greatest 
alarm  for  Harry's  stability,  and  the  greatest  pride  and  con- 
fidence in  it. 

But  when  the  evening  was  considerably  advanced,  and 
they  had  all  assembled  in  the  drawing-room,  Harry  began  to 
talk  of  what  they  had  seen  and  heard  in  Stirling. 

'•  Who  do  you  think  I  met,  Martha  ?  "  said  the  unthinking 
Harry,  '•  Dick  Buchanan,  my  old  plague  in  Glasgow  ;  and 
what  do  you  think  he  told  me? — I  scarcely  can  believe  it — 
that  our  friend  Charteris  was  actually  going  to  be  married  to 
his  sister  Clemie,  a  good-natured  clumsy  girl,  whom  I  used  to 
see  going  to  school.  I  could  not  have  expected  such  a  thing 
of  Charteris." 

And  as  Harry's  eye  rested  on  Rose,  he  stopped  suddenly, 
his  face  flushing  all  over  with  the  deepest  colour ;  yet  Rose 
displayed  no  motion.  A  slight  start,  a  momentary  paleness, 
and  then  she  put  out  her  hand  as  if  to  grasp  at  something, 
drawing  it  back  by  and  bye  with  an  unconscious  motion  of 
imagination,  as  if  her  prop  had  pained  her — though  she  did 
not  say  a  word. 

But  her  head  grew  giddy,  and  the  light  swam  in  her  dark- 
ening eyes  ;  and  constantly  in  her  mind  was  this  impulse  to  take 
hold  of  something  to  keep  herself  from  falling.  When  Gilbert 
took  reluctant  leave,  and  she  rose  to  bid  him  good-night,  her 
hand  clutched  at  the  back  of  an  empty  chair  ;  and  when  she 
went  to  rest,  with  a  ringing  in  her  ears  and  a  dimness  before 
here  eyes,  Rose  held  by  the  wall  on  her  way  to  her  own  cham- 
ber— not  to  support  herself,  though  even  her  form  tottered,  but 
to  support  her  heart  which  tottered  more. 


238  HARRY    MUIK. 

She  did  not  think,  nor  ask  nor  question  anything  ;  she  was 
too  much  occupied  in  this  immediate  necessity  of  holding  her- 
self up,  and  propping  her  stricken  strength. 

"  I  believe  I  am  a  fool,"  said  Harry,  suddenly,  when  Rose 
withdrew  ;  "  I  never  thought — Charteris  was  here  so  short  a 
time  the  other  day,  and  it  is  so  long  since  he  came  before — I 
never  thought  of  Rose  ;  but  she  took  it  very  quietly,  Martha. 
Is  she  interested,  do  you  think  1  Will  she  feel  it  ?  I  am  sure, 
for  my  own  part,  I  always  believed  that  Charteris  liked  Rose, 
and  I  cannot  tell  what  made  me  so  foolish  to-night." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  very  well,"  said  Martha  ;  "  it  must  have 
been  told,  and  the  manner  of  telling  it  is  a  small  matter ;  but 
Rose,  as  you  say,  took  it  very  quietly.  I  dare  say  she  will  not 
care  about  it,  Harry." 

Martha  knew  better — but  she  thought  it  well  to  pass  over 
the  new  grief  lightly,  since  it  was  a  grief  which  could  not  bear 
either  sympathy  or  consolation. 

But  when  Lettie  next  morning,  prompted  by  a  sudden 
caprice,  ran  "  all  the  way"  to  the  Lady's  Well,  to  gather  some 
wild  roses  and  the  fragrant  meadow-queen  for  Martha,  she  saw 
some  one  sitting  on  the  stone  where  Lady  Violet  sat,  and  was 
only  fortified  by  the  bright  daylight  to  approach.  But  it  was 
Rose's  muslin  gown,  and  not  the  silvery  garments  of  the  fairy 
lady,  which  lay  upon  the  turf ;  and  Rose  was  leaning  with  both 
her  hands  heavily  upon  the  canopy  of  the  well,  and  looking 
into  the  deep  brushwood,  as  Lettie  many  a  time  had  looked — 
though  this  was  a  deeper  abstraction  than  even  the  long  silent 
reveries  of  the  poetic  child.  With  a  sudden  consciousness  that 
there  lay  some  unknown  sorrow  here,  the  little  girl  came  for- 
ward shyly,  looking  up  with  her  wistful  eyes  in  her  sister's  face. 
It  did  not  seem  that  she  interrupted  Rose's  thoughts,  and 
Violet  began  silently  to  gather  her  flowers.  There  were  some 
wild  roses,  half-opened  buds,  which  could  be  carried  even  by  a 
school  girl,  without  risk  of  perishing,  for  one  of  the  "  young 
ladies  "  at  Blaelodge,  whom  Lettie  liked  greatly,  and  who 
much  desired  some  tangible  memorial  of  the  place  whence  the 
Lady  Violet  of  Lettie's  oft-repeated  story  passed  away ;  and 
a  sweet  fairy  posie  of  the  graceful  queen  of  the  meadow  for 
Martha's  especial  gratification,  and  some  drooping  powdery 
flowers  of  grass,  from  which  the  seed  was  falling,  for  Lettie 
herself.  When  they  were  all  gathered,  Lettie  sat  down  softly 
on  the  grass  at  Rose's  feet,  and  laid  the  flowers  in  her  lap,  and 
was  very  quiet,  venturing  now  and  then  a  wistful  glance  up  to 
the  absorbing  face  above  her. 


HAURY    MUIR.  239 

And  by  and  bye,  the  heavy  leaning  of  Kose's  arms  relaxed, 
and  she  leaned  upon  her  knee  instead,  and  looked  down  on 
Violet.  "  Lettie,  I  think  my  heart  will  break,"  said  Rose, 
with  a  low  sigh  ;  and  again  she  put  out  her  hand. 

She  could  not  say  so  much  to  Martha :  she  could  not  tell  it 
to  another  in  all  the  wide  world,  for  the  shy  heart  would  ren- 
der no  reason  for  its  sudden  grief;  but  she  could  say  it  to  her 
little  sister,  who  asked  no  reason — who  did  not  speak  at  all  in 
vain  consolation,  but  who  only  looked  up,  with  such  a  world 
of  innocent  sympathy  and  wonder  in  her  dark,  wistful  eyes. 

Poor  Rose  !  a  hero  and  martyr  to  her  own  pride  of  woman- 
liness, will  never  tell  what  this  blight  is — never,  if  it  should 
kill  her — and  she  thinks  it  will  kill  her,  poor,  simple  heart ! 
Since  she  heard  '•  it " — and  she  never  describes  to  herself  more 
definitely  what  it  was  she  heard — she  has  been  in  a  maze,  and 
never  reasoned  on  it.  She  cannot  reason  on  it — we  so  seldom 
think ^  after  all,  either  in  our  joys  or  troubles — she  only  is 
aware  of  long  trains  of  musings  sweeping  through  her  mind, 
like  dreams,  which  place  her  in  the  strangest  connection  with 
Cuthbert  and  Cuthbert's  bride,  and  bring  them  continually  in 
her  way  :  and  she  always  assumes  a  sad  dignity  in  her  fancies, 
and  will  do  anything  rather  than  have  them  believe  that  this 
moves  her ;  and  then  she  tries  to  think  of  Harry  and  of  the 
family  cares  and  expectations,  to  rouse  her  from  this  stupor 
of  her  own  ;  and  getting  sick  with  the  struggle — sick  alike  in 
body  and  in  heart — lays  down  her  head  upon  her  hands,  and 
faintly  weeps. 

"  Now,  Lettie,  come  ;  they  will  wonder  where  we  are,"  said 
Rose  ;  and  she  dipped  her  hand  in  the  little  marble  basin  of 
the  Lady's  Well,  and  bathed  her  aching  eyes.  Lettie,  with  a 
visionary  awe,  bathed  hers  too,  as  if  it  were  an  act  of  worship  ; 
and  was  very  sad,  in  the  depths  of  her  heart. 

Rose  was  a  bad  dissembler.  It  was  quite  impossible  to 
hide  from  any  one  of  them  that  she  was  very  melancholy ;  but 
Harry  saw  less  of  the  truth  than  the  rest,  for  Rose  struggled 
valiantly  to  smile  before  Harry,  and  to  keep  all  her  gloom 
concealed.  He  was  a  man,  even  though  he  was  her  dearest 
brother.  She  would  suffer  anything  before  she  would  disclose 
her  heart  to  him. 

Agnes,  troubled  and  perplexed,  not  knowing  whether  to 
take  notice  of  Rose's  sorrow  or  not,  paid  her  all  manner  of 
little  tender  attentions,  as  if  she  had  been  ill.  Martha,  asking 
nothing — for  Martha  knew  very  well  that  Cuthbert  had  broken 


240  HARRY    MUIR. 

no  word,  nor  had  ever  definitely  said  to  Rose  anything  which 
could  give  grounds  for  this  sadness — talked  to  her  sometimes 
of  the  common  trials  which  common  people  bear  and  overcome  ; 
sometimes  awoke  her  out  of  a  reverie,  with  a  kind  hand  upon 
her  shoulder,  and  a  quick  word  in  her  ear;  employed  her  all. 
day  long  at  something ;  watched  her  perpetually  with  a  moth- 
er's unwavering  care  ;  but  little  Lettie,  looking  wistfully  up, 
with  her  dark,  melancholy  eyes — Lettie,  who  knew  that  Rose's 
heart  was  "  like  to  break,"  and  who  deserted  all  her  play  to 
sit  beside  her  on  the  carpet,  and  press  close  to  her  feet,  and 
caress  them  softly  with  her  hand — Lettie  was  perhaps  the 
best  comforter  of  all. 

But  meanwhile  the  unconscious  Cuthbert  wearied  himself 
with  continual  business,  and  thought  murderous  thoughts  of 
the  innocent  young  Mr.  Dunlop  ;  till  his  mother,  alarmed  about 
his  health,  prevailed  upon  him,  with  many  solicitations,  to  go 
away  for  a  month,  and  travel,  and  rest.  And  Clemie  Buchan- 
an, more  unconscious  still,  romped,  to  the  full  heart's  content 
of  a  strong  joyous  girl  of  sixteen,  among  the  Argyleshire  hills, 
and  reverencing  greatly  the  lofty  attainments  of  her  cousin 
Cuthbert,  would  quite  as  soon  have  thought  of  marrying  old 
Dr.  Black,  who  christened  her,  and  whose  sermons  she  had 
laboriously  listened  to  almost  every  Sabbath-day  in  all  these 
sixteen  years.  Clemie  had  a  sweetheart  of  her  own — a  young 
merchant  like  her  brothers ;  and  Cuthbert,  as  he  travelled 
southwards,  cast  longing  looks  towards  Stirling,  and  scarcely 
could  deny  himself  another  glance  at  Allenders ;  but  looks  do 
not  travel  over  straths  and  rivers,  and  Rose  never  knew  the 
affectionate  longings,  which  could  not  prevail  with  themselves 
to  relinquish  her  remembrance  and  her  name. 


CHAPTER   XL. 

What  man  is  he  that  boasts  of  fleshly  might,    • 

And  vaine  assurance  of  mortality, 
Which,  all  so  soone  as  it  cloth  come  to  fight 

Against  spirituall  foes,  yields  by  and  by  ? 

Faery  Qiteen-. 

That  day,  beginning  with  deep  sadness  to  one  member  of  the 
family,  and  with  anxious  sympathetic  concern  to  the  rest,  was 
the  last  day  of  hope  and  peace  in  Allenders. 


HARRY    MUIR.  241 

For  on  the  very  next — another  June  day,  rich  with  the 
most  glorious  mockery  of  joy  and  sunshine — Martha's  last 
desperate  hope  died  in  her  heart.  Et  had  struggled  long  in 
its  strange,  feverish  lifetime  ;  now  it  fell  at  a  blow. 

A  gracious  invitation  to  Sir  John  Dunlop's  had  come  that 
evening  to  Harry  ;  and  Harry  spent  the  day  with  Gilbert  Al- 
lenders  in  a  ride  to  Stirling,  from  which  he  did  not  return, 
until  the  full  time  when  Sir  John  would  enter  his  stately  din- 
ing-room. Agnes,  dressed  for  a  full  hour,  stood  at  the  window 
trembling  and  miserable,  looking  for  Harry ;  and  Martha  was 
on  the  turret ;  and  Rose,  roused  out  of  her  own  trouble,  wan- 
dered along  the  road  with  the  children  to  meet  him.  But 
when  Harry  came,  he  came  with  glittering  eye  and  ghastly 
smiles,  as  they  used  to  see  him,  long  ago,  in  Glasgow ;  and 
bidding  Gilbert  good-bye,  with  loud  demonstrations  of  friend- 
ship, at  the  gate,  came  in  in  great  haste,  and  ran  up-stairs, 
taking  three  steps  at  a  time,  to  get  to  his  dressing-room,  and 
make  ready  for  Lady  Dunlop's  party.  Agnes  went  after  him 
timidly,  to  say  it  was  too  late,  and  to  beg  him  not  to  go ;  but 
Harry  laughed  first,  and  then  frowned,  and  then  commanded — 
he  was  resolved  to  go,  whatever  was  the  hour. 

'•  He  is  not  fit  to  go,  he  will  disgrace  himself  for  ever,  they 
will  never  speak  to  him  again,"  sobbed  the  little  wife.  "  Oh ! 
Martha,  speak  to  him,  tell  him  it  is  too  late." 

Poor  little  Agnes !  she  could  not  believe  that  Martha's 
"  speaking  to  him  "  would  have  no  effect. 

In  half  an  hour,  he  came  down  stairs,  dressed,  and  consid- 
erably subdued,  though  still  with  an  excitement  only  too  easily 
perceptible. 

"  Where's  John  with  the  carriage  ? "  exclaimed  Harry. 
"  Why  does  that  fellow  always  keep  us  waiting  ?  why  is  he 
not  at  the  door  ?  "  and  he  rang  the  bell  violently. 

"  You  are  much  too  late,  and  they  are  punctilious  people  ; 
I  beg  you  will  not  go  to-night.  It  is  easy  to  send  an  apology," 
said  Martha,  who  was  calmer  now  than  she  had  been  through 
all  her  time  of  hope. 

''  It  is  this  night  and  no  other,  that  I  intend  to  go,"  said 
Harry,  "  and  I  am  not  inclined  to  suffer  any  more  dictation. 
What's  the  matter,  Agnes  ?  why  do  you  make  her  cry,  Martha  ? 
Must  I  take  her  away  with  red  eyes,  all  for  your  pleasure? 
Tell  John  to  bring  round  the  carriage  instantly — instantly, 
do  you  hear  ?  he  has  kept  his  mistress  waiting  long  enough 
already." 

11 


242  HARRY    MUIR. 

And  as  the  maid  withdrew,  startled  and  astonished,  Harry 
himself  went  to  the  door,  and  stood  upon  the  threshold,  wait- 
ing for  John. 

"  You're  not  angry,  Martha,"  pleaded  poor  little  Agnes ; 
"  he  does  not  know  what  he  is  saying.  And  never  mind  sit- 
ting up,  it  would  only  grieve  you  ;  I  must  try  to  take  care  of 
poor  Harry  myself  to-night." 

Martha  made  few  demonstrations,  but  she  put  her  arm 
round  the  little  wife  now,  and  kissed  the  cheek  upon  which 
the  tears  were  still  wet.  This  caress  nearly  overcame  Agnes, 
but  with  a  strong  effort,  she  wiped  her  eyes,  and  went  away. 

Drearily  passed  that  evening.  A  heavy  shower  came  on 
as  it  darkened,  and  all  the  night  through  beat  upon  the  leaves, 
so  that  Lettie,  holding  her  breath  as  she  learned  her  lessons, 
fancied  that  footsteps  were  travelling  round  and  round  the 
house — continually,  without  pause  or  intermission,  round  and 
round.  And  the  wind  whistled  with  a  little,  desolate,  shrill 
cry,  about  the  silent  walls,  and  the  burn  ran  fast  and  full  into 
the  river.  Every  sound  without  became  distinctly  audible  in 
the  extreme  quietness,  and  other  sounds  which  did  not  exist  at 
all,  stole  in,  imagined,  upon  their  strained  ears.  Sounds  of 
earriage-wheels,  which  never  advanced,  but  always  rumbled  on 
at  a  distance,  shrill  cries  of  voices  hovering  in  the  air,  foot- 
steps upon  the  stair,  footsteps  without — it  was  a  dreary  night ! 

And  when  it  became  late,  and  it  was  full  time  for  Harry's 
return,  Martha  stole  down  stairs  to  the  lower  room,  and  open- 
ed the  window,  and  stood  by  it  in  the  dark,  watching  for  their 
carriage-wheels.  The  jasmine  rustled  on  the  walls,  with  an 
early  star  of  white  specking  its  dark  luxuriance — alas  !  those 
jasmine  flowers  !  Martha  plucked  this  half-opened  one  hastily, 
and  threw  it  away — she  could  not  bear  its  fragrance. 

And  Rose  crept  after  her,  and  sat  upon  a  chair  at  the 
window,  leaning  her  throbbing  brow  on  Martha's  arm  .  "  Hush  ! 
I  hear  them,"  said  Martha  ;  it  was  nothing  but  this  imagined 
sound  which  had  rung  through  all  the  night. 

At  last  they  came,  and  though  the  sisters  heard  Harry's 
voice  while  yet  the  carriage  was  hidden  in  the  darkness,  he 
handed  his  wife  out  very  quietly,  when  they  came  to  the  door. 
On  their  way  up-stairs,  Agnes  felt  her  hand  caught  in  Martha's, 
and  answered  the  implied  question,  in  a  tremulous  whisper : 
"  No  doubt  they  saw — no  doubt  they  saw — and  pity  me, 
Martha,  for  such  a  night ;  but  maybe,  maybe,  it  was  not  so 
bad  as  we  might  have  feared." 


HARRY    MUIR.  243 

That  night  nothing  more  was  either  asked  or  told,  and  it 
was  not  till  the  forenoon  of  the  next  day,  when  Harry  had 
gone  out,  that  Agnes,  leaning  on  Martha's  arm,  and  with  Rose 
bending  eagerly  over  her  on  the  other  side,  walked  slowly 
along  the  mall,  and  told  her  story.  They  had  been  received 
with  much  stiffness  and  ceremony  by  Sir  John,  his  son,  and 
his  daughter,  who  evidently  thought  their  late  arrival  a  quite 
unwarrantable  assumption  of  familiarity.  Kindly  good-humour- 
ed, Lady  Dunlop  had  soothed  and  comforted  Agnes  ;  but  the 
hauteur  of  their  reception  plunged  Harry  into  a  fit  of  sullen 
silence,  which  was  even  more  painful  to  see  than  his  excite- 
ment. Then,  Agnes  said,  some  stranger  present  began  to 
comment  severely  on  the  rude  cothouses  at  Maidlin  Cross,  and 
to  wonder  why  none  of  the  neighbouring  landlords  interfered 
to  provide  better  accommodation  for  their  workmen.  That 
Harry  fired  at  this,  and  challenging  Sir  John  to  do  his  part, 
pledged  himself  that  on  his  property  it  should  be  immediately 
looked  to,  was  only  what  the  listeners  expected  to  hear  ;  but 
he  did  it  with  such  vehemence  and  energy,  Agnes  reported, 
that  some  smiled,  some  looked  grave  and  pitiful,  all  turned 
away,  and  for  half  an  hour  before  they  left,  no  one  spoke  to 
Harry  or  herself,  save  good  Lady  Dunlop,  who  called  her  my 
dear,  and  patted  her  shoulder,  and  did  all  she  could  to  soothe 
the  shame  and  bitter  feelings,  which  the  neglect  of  the  others 
wounded  beyond  soothing. 

But  Harry  was  gone  this  morning  to  the  builder  who 
erected  his  barns,  to  see  about  model  cottages  ;  and  Agnes  al- 
most for  the  first  time  began  to  be  alarmed  about  the  means. 
Could  Harry  afi'ord  to  build  model  houses  after  all  the  outlay 
of  his  expensive  life  ?  He  who  had  pulled  down  houses  and 
barns  to  build  greater,  and  who  had  nothing  to  put  into  them, 
could  he  afford  to  go  out  of  his  way  and  spend  money  thus  % 
But  they  had  all  been  kept  totally  in  the  dark  as  to  Harry's 
money  matters.  They  had  no  idea  how  much  he  had  wasted 
— how  much  had  gone  to  Gilbert  Allenders,  and  to  the  plea- 
sures shared  by  him ;  but  a  momentary  review  of  the  past 
year  startled  them  all.  They  looked  in  each  other's  scared 
faces,  and  shook  their  heads  in  sudden  clear-sightedness  as 
Agnes  asked  the  question,  and  the  truth  dawned  upon  them  all. 

"  Na,  na,  lad  ;  Allenders  has  plenty  o'  siller  bye  the  land, 
ye  may  take  my  word  for  it,"  said  the  slow  voice  of  Geordie 
Paxton,  speaking  out  of  the  hay- field  at  the  end  of  the  mall, 
opposite  to  Rose's  favourite  oak.     "  I  spoke  to  him  mysel  about 


244  HARRY    MUIR. 

that  grand  new  harrow,  and  an  improvement  o'  my  ain  in  the 
plough-graith,  when  he  started  farming,  and  he  never  boggled 
at  it  a  minute,  though  they  baith  cost  siller.  Then  he  has  a 
free  hand  himsel,  and  keeps  a  plentiful  house  ;  and  you'll  no 
tell  me  that  a  man  like  Allenders — a  fine  lad,  but  apt  to  gang 
ajee  whiles  like  ither  folk — doesna  take  a  good  purse  to  keep 
himsel  gaun,  let  alane  the  house  and  a'  thae  braw  leddies. 
And  so  I  have  reason  in  my  ain  mind,  as  guid  as  positive 
knowledge — which  I  could  only  have,  if  he  telled  me  himsel, 
Rob — to  say  that  Allenders  has  a  guid  income  coming  to  him, 
forbye  the  land  ;  ten  hunder  a  year — ay,  twelve  ye  may  ca'  it 
— would  not  do  more  than  keep  up  that  house." 

Agnes  started  in  dismay,  and  instinctively  put  her  hand 
in  her  pocket  for  her  little  book ;  but,  unfortunately,  Agnes 
always  forgot  to  put  down  her  housekeeping  in  this  little  book, 
though  she  had  bought  it  herself  expressly  for  the  purpose ; 
and  it  was  not  Agnes's  housekeeping  that  was  called  in  ques- 
tion. 

"  Sir  John's  man  telled  me,"  said  Geordie's  companion, 
with  the  deliberation  of  certainty,  "  that  Allenders  was  nae- 
thing  but  a  writing  clerk  in  an  office  afore  he  got  the  estate, 
and  that  he  hasna  a  penny  o'  his  ain  ;  the  story  is  no  mine, 
but  I  would  like  to  hear  who  should  ken  if  it  wasna  Sir  John's 
man?" 

"  I  dinna  believe  a  word  o'  it,"  said  Geordie,  hastily. 
"  Would  Sir  John  keep  that  auld  body  of  an  uncle  of  mine 
useless  about  the  house,  do  you  think,  and  gie  him  a'  his  ain 
gait,  and  deed  him,  and  feed  him,  for  the  auld  family's  sake, 
and  because  he's  been  a  faithful  servant  ?  I  trow  no :  and 
folk  that  live  in  glass  houses  shouldna  throw  stanes.  I  reckon 
Sir  John's  no  fashed  wi'  ower  muckle  siller  himsel." 

"  That's  naething  to  the  question,"  returned  his  dogmati- 
cal opponent,  after  one  or  two  sweeps  of  the  scythe  among  the 
fragrant  grass  bore  witness  that  they  had  resumed  their  work. 
"  What  I  say  is,  that  Allenders  has  naething  but  the  estate, 
and  there'll  be  a  great  smash  some  of  thir  days ;  ye  can  be- 
lieve me  or  no,  just  as  you  like." 

"  He  has  his  faults,  puir  lad,  but  he's  young  and  he'll 
mend,"  said  Geordie  ;  "  and  you  wadna  ask  nie  to  believe  that 
Allenders  is  clean  mad,  and  out  of  his  wits,  which  is  just  the 
same  as  saying  that  he  lives  at  this  rate,  and  has  nae  siller  o' 
his  ain." 

The  listeners  withdrew  in  dismay  and  alarm.     To  Martha 


HARRY    MUIR.  245 

this  gossip  only  confirmed  many  previous  fears,  but  to  the 
others  it  came  like  a  revelation. 

'•  If  we  were  ruined,  Martha,  what  would  Harry  do?  "  said 
Agnes,  "  Wc  could  work  for  ourselves,  and  I  am  sure  I 
would  never  mind  the  change ;  but  Harry — poor  Harry  !  it 
would  break  his  heart.  I  thought  there  could  be  nothing 
harder  to  bear  than  last  night,  but,  Martha,  I  think  if  there 
is  no  good  change,  it  will  kill  me." 

•'  It  must  not  kill  you,  Agnes,"  said  Martha,  speaking  very 
low.  '•  Bairns,  hear  me  ;  you  must  let  nothing  kill  you,  nothing 
crush  you,  even  in  your  inmost  hearts,  till  Grod  sends  the  mes- 
senger that  will  not  be  gainsaid ;  and  God  grant  that  he  may 
be  far  off  from  you  both.  Now  it  is  coming — maybe  ruin, 
maybe  destruction,  certain  distress  and  anguish.  If  I  could 
bear  it  all,  you  should  never  hear  when  it  drew  near ;  but  it 
must  come  upon  you  both — upon  you  both,  tender,  delicate 
things,  that  should  be  blessed  with  the  dews  of  your  youth. 
But  the  end  is  coming  which  Grod  knows  ;  you  must  not  pine, 
you  must  not  weep,  you  must  not  waste  your  strength  with 
mourning.  Bairns,  we  have  to  wait,  and  be  ready  and  strong, 
to  meet  it  when  it  comes.     This  is  what  we  have  to  do." 

As  Martha  spoke,  she  held  in  her  grasp  the  soft,  warm 
hands  of  Agnes  and  Rose.  They  looked  up  to  her,  one  on 
either  side,  like  children  to  a  mother,  with  lifted  eyes,  wistful 
and  eager.  It  was  not  necessary  to  answer,  but  they  went 
back  again  to  the  house  together,  with  a  strange  strain  in  their 
hearts,  something  like  the  bodily  strain  which  their  eager 
bend  towards  Martha  and  anxious  look  up  to  her  had  pro- 
duced. They  were  warned,  prepared,  ready  for  the  evil ;  and 
they  thought  they  had  reached  to  the  sublime  sadness  of 
patience,  and  would  not  fret  or  chafe  over  the  daily  griefs 
again,  but  rather  would  be  strong  for  the  end. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 


Life  will  not  flow  as  rivers  flow,  or  seas  ; 
It  is  a  flood,  but  made  of  raindrops ;  days, 
And  hours,  moments — several,  pitiless. 


But  still  the  days,  each  with  its  daily  burden,  wore  out  the 
faltering  strength,  which  tried  to  endure  them  calmly,  and 


246  HARRY    MUIR. 

look  towards  the  end — the  end  great  and  solemn,  which 
would  demand  all  their  might  when  it  came,  was  obscured 
with  smaller  miseries  coming  hour  by  hour,  which  called  for 
less  preparation,  and  were  less  easily  endured. 

Secretly  within  herself,  Agnes  said  again  that  this  would 
kill  her — secretly  Rose  murmured  that  her  heart  was  like  to 
break ;  and  from  the  solemn  calm  of  patience  they  descended 
into  the  burning  fever  of  constant  anxiety,  of  hourly  jealous 
fear  and  watching ;  but  Martha's  warning  and  the  constant 
desire  to  see  with  their  own  eyes,  and  hear  with  their  own 
ears,  what  Harry  did  and  said,  preserved  them  from  the 
bodily  maladies  which  might  have  attended  this  feverish 
strain  of  heart  and  mind.  They  were  one  in  their  anxieties, 
their  thoughts,  their  fears ;  yet  none  could  trust  the  other  to 
report  for  her  what  was  every  day's  state — none  could  afford 
to  be  ill,  or  take  shelter  in  bed  or  chamber.  Day  by  day  they 
watched,  and  night  by  night  kept  vigils,  taking  only  such 
sleep  as  nature  compelled. 

And  Harry,  poor  Harry !  went  on  sinking,  neglecting  the 
love  which  in  his  real  heart  was  dearer  to  him  a  hundred  times 
than  all  the  objects  he  pursued  in  his  infatuation.  Like  a 
man  on  the  smooth  incline  of  some  frightful  downright  slope, 
he  seemed  to  lose  all  power  after  the  first  impetus  was  given, 
and  went  sheer  down  without  a  pause  or  stay.  Poor  Harry  ! 
if  he  was  sullen  sometimes,  at  other  some  there  came  to  him 
bursts  of  exceeding  tenderness,  remorseful  and  pathetic,  as  if 
his  better  angel  was  weeping  within  him,  over  his  ruin  ;  but 
still  he  went  down — clutching  at  the  flowers  which  waved  over 
the  edge  of  the  precipice,  and  darting  down  its  rapid  incline 
with  their  torn  blossoms  in  his  hand  ;  but  the  downward  pro- 
gress was  never  stayed. 

The  next  day  after  Sir  John  Dunlop's  unfortunate  party, 
Harry,  heated  and  defiant,  took  his  builder  with  him  to  visit 
the  cottages  at  Maidlin.  Harry  desired  to  see  the  finest 
plans,  the  best  models,  and  to  plant  such  an  exotic  English 
village  as  great  lords  make  for  playthings,  on  that  part  of 
Maidlin  which  bordered  on  his  estate. 

"  Don't  mind  uniformity — don't  take  any  pains  to  make  it 
correspond  with  the  other  half,"  said  Harry,  in  excitement 
and  anger.  "  Let  Sir  John  Dunlop  have  pigsties  if  he  likes 
for  his  men.  All  I  care  about  is  my  share,  and  you  must 
spare  no  pains  on  that." 

•'  But  the  expense,  Allenders  ?  "    said   the   builder,  with 


HARRY    MUIR.  24*7 

perplexity  and  disconcertment,  "  it's  sure  to  take  a  heap  of 
money." 

"  Never  mind  the  mOney,"  said  Harry,  loftily,  "  that  is  my 
concern — yours  is  to  make  a  handsome  village  on  this  side  of 
the  Cross,  and  the  other  houses  can  be  pulled  down  after- 
wards ;  let  me  have  plans  and  estimates  as  soon  as  they  can 
be  prepared,  and  see  that  you  are  not  content  with  inferior 
models.  Let  Sir  John  look  to  his  own  ;  I  have  nothing  to 
do  with  that." 

"  Very  well,  Allenders,"  said  the  man  doubtfully,  "  very 
well ;  I'll  see  about  the  plans,  and  if  ye're  pleased,  and  no 
scared  wi'  the  expense,  we  may  soon  win  to — but  it'll  take  a 
lot  of  siller." 

Young  Mr.  Dunlop  passed  on  horseback  along  the  high- 
way as  the  man  spoke.  The  stiffest  and  most  formal  saluta- 
tions passed  between  him  and  Harry.  Henceforth  it  was 
evident  that  there  was  no  more  friendship  to  be  looked  for 
there.  The  builder  went  home  much  perplexed,  and  had  his 
plans  prepared  only  very  deliberately.  He  could  not  believe 
that  so  small  an  estate  as  Allenders  could  afford  such  an 
expensive  whim  as  this. 

And  Armstrong  shook  his  head  over  the  fields,  bearing 
still  a  scanty  insufficient  crop,  and  honestly  deplored  and 
lamented  the  daily  visits  which  Harry  paid  to  his  lodger, 
Gilbert  Allenders.  Gilbert  had  scarcely  the  shadow  of  an 
excuse,  in  the  way  of  medical  practice,  for  his  residence  here  ; 
and  the  universal  prejudice  which  accused  him  of  "  leading 
away  "  the  unfortunate  young  man  of  whom  everybody  was 
inclined  to  think  well,  was  not  without  its  foundation.  But 
Harry — poor  Harry  !  he  was  always  "  led  away  " — and  it  was 
so  easy  to  find  a  tempter. 

A  life  of  coarse  dissipation  had  become,  by  long  practice, 
the  natural  breath  of  Gilbert  Allenders  ;  he  could  not  live 
soberly  and  quietly  as  other  men  did  ;  he  felt  it  necessary  to 
fill  every  day  as  it  came  with  its  proportion  of  excitements 
and  pleasures,  as  he  called  them  ;  and  in  a  sense  very  widely 
apart  from  the  commanded  one,  he  took  no  thought  for  the 
morrow.  It  pleased  him,  in  some  degree,  to  "  lead "  Harry 
'•  away ;  "  he  felt  a  certain  gratification  in  possessing  the 
power  :  but  though  there  might  lurk  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  a  secret  grudge  against  the  stranger  who  had  dis- 
possessed him  of  the  inheritance  he  once  reckoned  upon,  and 
a  secret  pleasure  in  thus  avenging  himself,  it  lay  far  down  in 


248  HARRY    MUIR. 

the  depths,  and  Gilbert  was  totally  unconscious  of  its  exist- 
ence. He  rather  liked  Harry  on  the  contrary — liked  his 
society,  his  wit,  and  felt  his  participation  in  them  impart  a 
keener  zest  to  his  own  recreations.  For  Gilbert  was  not  a 
villain,  nor  ever  pursued  revenge  with  purpose  or  malice  ;  he 
was  only  a  man  of  evil  habits  and  impure  mind,  who  felt  the 
burden  of  his  own  faults  lightened  when  he  could  make  others 
partakers  in  them.  And  only  so  far  was  it  true  that  he  led 
Harry  away. 

The  harvest  came  with  its  sudden  increase  of  labourers, 
and  flocks  of  shearers  crowded  into  Harry's  field  ;  but  the 
poor  Highland  wanderers  and  far-travelled  Irish  lingered 
about  the  farm-steading  of  Allender  Mains,  and  lost  days  that 
might  have  been  profitable  to  them,  waiting  for  the  wages 
which  Harry  did  not  know  were  due. 

The  joyous  autumn  began  to  wane,  and  Harry's  thrashing- 
mill  began  to  work,  throwing  out  its  banner  of  blue  smoke 
above  the  trees.  But  Harry's  hopes  came  to  no  harvest — the 
long-neglected  land  still  bore  scantily — the  slender  crops  did 
not  pay,  nor  nearly  pay  for  their  culture.  Not  even  William 
Hunter's  rent  came  in  now  to  give  the  embarrassed  laird  an 
income,  and  his  second  half-yearly  payment  of  interest  was  due 
at  Martinmas,  with  only  enough  remaining  to  pay  it  of  his  last 
thousand  pounds ;  and  no  provision  made  for  the  whole  lo^ng 
year  which  must  intervene  between  this  and  another  harvest 
— nothing  to  continue  the  cultivation  which  should  make  ano- 
ther harvest  profitable — nothing  to  maintain  the  expensive 
household,  which  now  in  Allenders  waited  for  its  fate ;  and 
Harry  looked  before  him,  and  around,  and  muttered  curses  on 
his  own  folly,  and  saw  no  way  of  deliverance. 

He  could  not  spring  out  of  his  ruin,  he  could  do  nothing 
to  make  himself  free ;  but  he  could  forget  and  drown  it,  and 
he  did  so. 

No  kindly  neighbours  now  entered  the  house  of  Allenders. 
Good  Lady  Dunlop  took  stolen  opportunities  of  alighting  from 
her  carriage  on  the  road,  when  her  daughter  was  not  with  her, 
to  comfort  the  poor  little  wife,  over  whom  her  motherly  heart 
yearned  ;  and  the  ladies  of  Nettlehaugh  and  Foggo  Barns, 
made  their  salutations  at  church,  and  eased  their  consciences. 
Agnes  herself  began  to  grow  nervous,  to  start  at  sudden 
sounds,  and  be  shaken  by  passing  voices.  Her  hand  trembled 
more  than  Harry's  did,  sometimes,  and  when  he  put  away  from 
him  with  loathing  the  simple,   wholesome  food  he  could  no 


HARRY   MUIR.  249 

longer  take,  Agnes  grew  so  sick  that  she  could  not  keep  her 
seat.  Her  baby  did  not  thrive — he  scarcely  could  in  a  house 
where  the  one  great  absorbing  interest  engaged  every  thought ; 
no  one  sang  to  him  now,  except  Mysie — scarcely  any  one  had 
the  heart  to  play  with  him — and  the  poor  infant 

" —  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 
And  sighed  among  it  playthings." 

Rose,  with  no  resource  of  dreaming  left  to  her,  tried  to 
dull  her  heart  with  constant  labour,  and  wandered  out  in  the 
early  morning,  while  the  dew  was  still  on  the  grass,  to  sit  by 
the  Lady's  Well,  where  Lettie,  wistful  and  anxious,  found  her 
out  often,  and  sat  at  her  feet  in  silence,  touching  her  softly 
with  little  caressing  hands,  and  wondering  with  pensive 
thoughts  over  the  mystery  which  made  Rose  "  like  to  break 
her  heart ;"  for  Lettie  knew  that  other  griefs  than  the  family 
fear  for  Harry,  bore  down  upon  the  gentle  spirit  of  her  sister 
Rose. 

And  when  Harry  was  out,  they  drew  together  instinctively, 
and  sat  working  in  Martha's  room.  And  5lartha  roused  her- 
self, and  with  the  ready  associations  and  strange  flow  of  simple 
words,  which  she  thought  were  signs  and  tokens  of  approaching 
age,  told  them  stories  of  actual  life,  homely,  real  histories,  in 
which  there  was  always  interest,  and  often  consolation.  She 
wondered  herself  at  the  clear  memory  which  recalled  to  her 
those  numberless  tales  of  the  neighbour  families  in  Ayr — 
stories  of  household  ajffliction,  sometimes  only  too  like  their 
own — but  still  one  continued  to  lead  to  another  ;  and  Rose  and 
Agnes  worked  beside  her,  and  listened,  and  the  tedium  of  the 
long,  sad  hours  was  beguiled.  Yet,  though  she  did  all  this  to 
give  some  partial  and  temporary  lightening  to  them,  heavy  as 
death  within  her  was  Martha's  own  strained  heart. 


CHAPTER   XLIL 

Two  peaceful  days.    And  what  should  hap  in  these, 
But  things  of  common  life  ?    He  will  return 
As  safe  as  he  went  hence. 

Late  in  the  end  of  October,  when  Katie  Calder  began  to  speak 
of  Hallowe'en,  and  to  consult  with  Jeanie  Armstrong  at  AUen- 
11* 


250  HARRY   MUIR. 

der  Mains,  on  the  best  place  to  pull  the  "  kailstocks,"  and  prac- 
tise the  other  spells  proper  to  the  occasion,  Harry  told  his 
anxious  household  that  he  was  going  to  Edinburgh.  They  had 
observed  that  he  was  gloomy  and  depressed  for  some  days  be- 
fore, though  he  had  been  less  than  usual  from  home.  Now  he 
told  them  vaguely  about  money  which  was  wanted,  and  ex- 
penses which  had  been  incurred,  and  that  his  errand  to  Edin- 
burgh was  on  business  very  important  to  him.  When  Martha 
and  Agnes  pressed  for  more  definite  information,  Harry  fell 
back  upon  his  morose  and  gloomy  silence.  It  was  useless  to 
be  making  inquiries,  for  many  a  thing  must  have  been  told,  if 
Harry  had  begun  to  satisfy  them,  which  he  would  never  suffer 
to  reach  their  ears. 

And  no  one  went  with  him  to  Stirling  this  time  to  see  him 
off.  When  even  Gilbert  AUenders  proposed  to  go,  Harry  an- 
swered him  with  an  instant  and  not  very  courteous  negative, 
and  Agnes's  wistful  looks  passed  quite  unnoticed.  He  rode 
away,  silently,  too  much  abstracted,  as  it  seemed,  to  turn  back 
and  wave  his  hand  to  his  wife  and  his  sisters  at  their  window, 
as  he  was  wont  to  do  ;  but  when  he  was  past  the  gate  and  al- 
most out  of  sight  upon  the  road — out  of  sight  entirely  to  eyes 
less  eager — they  saw  him  start  and  turn  round,  and  wave  back 
to  them  the  usual  gesture  of  farewell.  Agnes  thrust  herself 
half  out  of  the  window  of  the  drawing-room  to  return  it,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  ;  and  then  she  saw  his  head  droop  again  upon 
his  breast,  and  he  rode  away. 

On  the  third  night  after,  he  had  instructed  them  to  send 
John  with  his  horse  to  meet  him  in  Stirling.  He  expected  to 
arrive  there  at  four  or  five  in  the  afternoon,  and  to  be  home 
immediately  after.  With  the  most  zealous  care,  Agnes  re- 
corded all  Harry's  directions,  and  impressed  them  on  the  mind 
of  John  when  he  returned.  He  had  seen  his  master  safely  off 
upon  the  coach,  and  so  far  all  was  well. 

The  third  night  following  was  Hallowe'en,  and  even  Let- 
tie,  absorbed  with  the  expectation  of  entertaining  her  little 
sentimental  friend  from  Blaelodge,  and  one  or  two  other  chil- 
dren, with  the  appropriate  pastimes  of  the  night,  forgot  that 
Harry  was  coming  home.  But  punctually  to  the  hour,  John 
and  the  horse  trotted  out  from  the  gate  of  AUenders,  followed 
by  the  wistful  eyes  of  Agnes.  Agnes  longed  to  send  the  car- 
riage ;  but  such  was  not  Harry's  will,  and  in  his  present  mood 
she  could  not  contradict  him. 

Great  fires  blazed  in  the  two  family  sitting-rooms,  for  the 


HARRY    MUIR.  251 

night  was  damp  and  cold,  and  needed  this  cheerful  gleam  to 
brighten  it  for  the  traveller.  Some  special  delicacies  for 
Harry's  dinner  were  being  superintended  in  the  kitchen  by 
Agnes  herself,  and  the  glittering  tea-service  sparkled  already 
before  the  drawing-room  fire,  while  Rose  saw  that  Harry's  own 
room  grew  bright  and  warm  with  firelight,  and  that  everything 
he  needed  lay  ready  for  his  comfort.  The  early  night  fell 
when  they  were  thus  employed  ;  but  when  everything  was  done 
that  could  be  thought  of,  and  preparations  made  as  great  as 
if  he  had  been  a  year  away,  they  sat  down  in  the  twilight, 
crowding  about  the  window,  and  looking  out  from  the  warm 
flush  of  light  within  upon  the  uncertain  grey  which  lay  upon 
the  sky  and  hills. 

But  the  grey  tints  vanished,  and  the  full  gloom  of  night 
blotted  out  the  landscape — blotted  out  even  the  gate  and  its 
trees — the  rery  walnut  on  the  lawn — and  palpable  blackness 
pressed  upon  the  window,  and  upon  the  eyes  which  still  looked 
steadily  out  on  this  comprest,  uncreviced  gloom — and  Harry 
did  not  come. 

They  would  not  light  candles  to  remind  them  that  he  was 
late — they  would  not  hear  the  clock  strike  hour  by  hour.  Some- 
times with  faint  smiles  they  spoke  to  each  other  of  the 
childish  mirth  whose  sounds  they  could  hear  ascending  from 
below,  but  oftenest  they  were  entirely  silent,  except  for  a  whis- 
pered "  Listen  !  I  hear  the  horse  on  the  road,"  or  "  This  is 
Harry  now ;"  but  it  never  was  Harry.  And  the  sound  of 
horses'  hoofs  seemed  to  echo  perpetually  through  the  starless 
solemn  night.  And  midnight  came,  and  still  they  watched  — 
now  in  a  very  agony. 

At  last  they  heard  the  sound  of  the  opened  gate,  and  a  single 
horseman  became  slowly  perceptible  approaching  through  the 
gloom.  Throwing  down  the  chair  she  had  been  seated  on, 
in  haste  and  excitement,  Agnes  ran  down  stairs,  and  Martha 
and  Rose,  putting  restraint  upon  themselves,  followed  a  little 
more  slowly.  But  they  had  not  reached  the  hall  when  they 
heard  the  voice  of  John,  reporting  how  AUenders  had  sent 
him  on  before  to  tell  them  that  the  coach  had  been  detained 
much  beyond  its  time,  and  that  he  himself  was  on  the  road, 
and  would  be  immediately  at  home. 

Poor  little  Agnes  turned  from  the  door,  and  hiding  her  face 
in  Martha's  breast,  wept  quietly  tears  of  deferred  hope.  And 
Rose  went  forward  to  the  door  in  the  darkness,  anxious,  if  pos- 
sible, to  hear  something  of  Harry's  looks  from  John. 


252  HARRY    MUIR. 

"Was  my  brother  much  wearied?"  said  Rose  timidly. 
"  The  road  is  very  dark.  I  am  sorry  you  left  him,  John — he 
does  not  know  the  way  so  well  as  you.'' 

'•  Allenders  was  very  thoughtful-like,"  said  John,  with  a 
quick  apprehension  of  what  she  meant ;  "  and  I  ken  the  coach 
was  lang  after  its  time  ;  but  I  dinna  think  Allenders  was 
wearied,  to  speak  o'.  And  he  guides  the  horse  better  than  ony 
ither  body  now,  and  he  was  very  anxious  to  be  hame."' 

She  could  not  ask,  nor  be  told  more,  and  they  went  back  to 
their  window  to  watch  again  ;  while  Ptose,  begging  to  be  told 
whenever  they  heard  Harry,  had  the  fires  hastily  renewed,  her- 
self assisting  sleepy  Mysie,  who,  though  she  nodded  by  the 
kitchen  fire  would  not  go  to  bed,  and  leave  them  watching  alone. 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

There's  a  dark  spirit  walking  in  our  bouse. 
And  swiftly  will  the  destiny  close  on  us. 

SCHILLEK. 

It  was  nearly  twelve  o'clock  when  the  Edinburgh  coach  reached 
Stirling,  carrying  Harry,  much  subdued  and  cast  down,  but 
in  reality  this  time  detained  by  obstacles  over  which  he  had 
no  control.  During  all  this  journey  he  had  been  contemplating 
the  grim  strength  of  ruin  face  to  face — feeling  himself  now 
utterly  beyond  help  or  hope,  able  to  do  nothing  but  sit  down 
and  wait  for  the  final  blow.  The  place  at  which  he  had  ap- 
pointed his  servant  to  meet  him  was  some  distance  from  the 
eoach-office  ;  and  taking  his  little  valise  in  his  hand,  Harry 
walked  with  a  heavy,  weary  step,  much  unlike  his  usual  elastic 
one,  to  find  John. 

The  streets  were  still  and  deserted,  the  shops  shtit,  the 
lights  extinguished  in  almost  every  house  he  passed.  The 
very  public  houses,  inns,  and  lower  places  of  the  same  kind  had 
put  out  all  but  one  solitary  lamp,  which,  just  enough  to  light 
those  who  were  within,  looked  dreary  and  melan.choly  to  every- 
body without.  Harry  went  along  the  street  feeling  himself 
an  utter  stranger  here.  This  was  partly  true  ;  for  the  friends 
he  had  made  were  of  a  very  unpromising  kind,  and,  themselves 
broken  men  for  the  most  part,  could  render  little  comfort  to  a 


HARRY    MUIR.  253 

man  at  the  point  of  ruin ;  but  partly  it  was  the  mere  desola- 
tion of  the  silent  street,  echoing  to  his  footstep,  which  impress- 
ed the  sensitive  mind  of  Harry.  He  went  along  with  his 
valise  under  his  arm,  and  his  pale  face  drooping — a  face 
marked  with  lines  of  altogether  new  rigidity,  and  full  of  a  si- 
lent forlorn  despair,  which  it  was  touching  to  see  in  one  so 
young,  and  naturally  so  hopeful.  He  could!  not  tell  what  chill 
it  was  that  overpowered  his  heart — ruin ! — a  descent  from  his 
rank  and  his  inheritance — a  return  characterless,  and  with 
many  a  new  habit  of  evil,  to  the  occupation  in  which  once  be- 
fore he  had  failed — worse  than  all,  the  remembrance  of  his 
sins,  which  returned  to  look  him  in  the  face  like  upbraiding 
spirits.  Yet  even  this  was  not  all :  a  vague  dread,  a  shivering, 
mysterious  presentiment  of  some  unknown  evil  to  come,  hover- 
ed over  these  real  griefs,  and  gave  them  shape  and  form,  in  a 
torpor  of  despair. 

He  set  out  upon  the  road  with  his  servant  at  a  rapid  pace ; 
but  in  spite  of  himself,  the  tramp  of  John's  horse,  continually 
taking  the  course  of  his  own  behind,  irritated  him  almost  be- 
yond endurance.  He  suffered  it  as  long  as  he  could,  feeling 
his  irritation  a  weakness ;  but  at  last  yielded  to  the  overpow- 
ering sense  of  annoyance  which  this  trifling  matter  occasioned 
him,  and  sent  his  man  on,  following  himself  more  slowly. 

The  night  was  very  dark — dark  as  it  is  only  in  a  perfectly 
rural  country  ;  and  as  the  ringing  silence  closed  about  him, 
and  he  heard  nothing  but  an  occasional  sigh  from  the  river,  or 
a  faint  flutter  among  the  falling  leaves,  or  the  sound  of  his 
own  progress  upon  the  solitary  road,  Harry's  thoughts  strayed 
away  from  his  great  miseries.  Once  or  twice,  a  leaf  in  its  de- 
scent blew  across  his  face,  and  made  his  horse  wince,  and  his 
heart  beat — and  then,  there  returned  upon  Harry  his  vague 
and  inexpressible  fear ;  but  shut  out  from  every  sight^  as  he 
was,  by  his  utter  darkness,  there  rose  up  scenes  of  cheerful 
light  before  his  imagination,  beautiful  to  see :  Uncle  Sandy's 
house  at  Ayr — the  little  parlour  in  Grlasgow — the  home  in  Al- 
lenders  to  which  he  was  returning.  A  strange,  dreamy  pleasure 
stole  over  him — he  forgot  his  sins,  his  misfortunes,  his  near 
and  inevitable  ruin — he  thought  of  the  home  enjoyments  which 
no  man  had  known  more  largely — he  thought  of  his  little 
loving  wife — of  the  passionate  affection  of  Martha — of  Rose's 
gentler  tenderness,  and  strange  little  poetic  Lettie,  with  her 
wistful  eyes.  Poor  Harry  !  his  heart  swelled  with  sudden  re- 
lief .as  these  came  to  his  imagination  :  little  domestic  remem- 


254  HARRY    MUIR. 

brances,  looks,  words,  innocent  mistakes  and  blunders,  things 
which  long  ago  brought  pleasant,  kindly  laughter,  or  tender 
tears  to  the  faces  of  them  all.  The  reins  fell  loosely  on  his 
horse's  neck  as  he  resigned  himself  to  this  repose ;  and  the 
cottage  firesides  at  Maidlin,  and  the  boyish  companions  of 
Ayr,  looked  in,  and  interwove  themselves  with  those  fancies  of 
home.  Sometimes' he  tried  to  rouse  himself,  and  a  sharp  pain 
shot  through  his  heart  as  for  a  moment  he  remembered  his 
real  state  and  prospects ;  but  still  this  singular  dream  return- 
ed upon  him,  and  in  his  heart  he  thanked  God  ! 

Meanwhile,  in  Allenders  they  sit  and  watch,  looking  out 
with  dread  and  sickening  pain  into  the  darkness,  praying  till 
their  hearts  are  again  "  like  to  break."  Sometimes  Agnes 
kneels  down  by  a  chair,  and  hides  her  face,  and  utters  a  low 
unconscious  cry  ;  sometimes  Martha  walks  heavily  up  or  down 
the  room,  pausing  in  the  midst,  to  think  she  hears  in  reality 
the  sound  which  has  mocked  them  in  the  imagination  all  the 
night.  "  I  am  going  to  my  own  room — do  not  come  to  me," 
said  Martha,  at  last,  in  a  half  whisper,  and  she  left  them  with- 
out another  word. 

But  not  to  her  own  chamber  to  weep  or  pray,  as  they 
thought ;  Mysie  nodding  by  the  kitchen  fire  was  suddenly 
startled  by  Martha's  appearance,  with  a  rigid  white  face  like 
death,  and  cloak  enveloping  her  whole  person.  With  a  slight 
scream,  the  drowsy  girl  started  to  her  feet,  scarcely  knowing 
if  she  saw  a  human  being  or  a  spirit. 

"  Mysie,  you  are  bold,"  said  Martha,  with  such  distinct 
rapidity  that  her  words  seemed  to  occupy  no  time.  "  I  want 
the  carriage  instantly.  I  am  going  to  seek  my  brother.  Come, 
and  show  me  what  has  to  be  done." 

"  I'll  waken  John,"  said  the  terrified  Mysie. 

"  I  do  not  require  John.  What  is  to  be  done  I  can  do 
myself.     Grive  me  a  light." 

But  Mysie,  who  was  in  reality  a  brave  girl,  and  could 
manage  horses  as  easily  as  she  managed  the  brown  cow,  and 
who  besides  doted  on  little  Harry  and  the  baby,  and  would 
not  have  hesitated  at  even  a  greater  thing  for  their  father, 
answered  by  lifting  John's  lantern ;  and  catching  down  a  plaid 
which  hung  on  the  wall  as  they  passed,  she  led  the  way  to  the 
stables  without  another  word. 

It  was  a  strange  scene :  Mysie  excited,  and  still  half 
dreaming,  forced  the  unwilling  horse  between  the  shafts  ;  and 
Martha,  like  a  marble  statue,  with  hands  which  never  trem- 


•  HARRY    MUIR.  255 

bled  nor  hesitated,  secured  the  fastening  in  perfect  silence. 
John  could  not  have  done  this  daily  business  of  his  in  half 
the  time  which  it  took  these  women  to  lead  the  carriage  soft- 
ly out  of  the  stables  round  by  a  lane  behind  the  house  into 
the  highway.  They  had  no  time  to  seek  for  the  lamps  to 
light  them,  so  Martha  carried  the  lantern  in  her  hand,  and 
held  it  up  into  the  darkness  as  they  advanced,  while  Mysie 
drove  on  steadily  toward  Stirling. 

They  had  not  gone  a  mile,  Martha  continually  lifting  her 
lantern  and  gazing  into  the  gloom,  when  they  heard  that  some 
one  on  a  galloping  horse  approached  them.  Martha  rose  to 
her  feet,  and  held  up  the  light.  It  seemed  to  scare  the  ani- 
mal, who  suddenly  paused,  with  reins  dangling  on  his  neck, 
and  foam  upon  his  breast ;  but  he  was  riderless.  "  It's  Allen- 
ders'  ain  horse,"  said  Mysie,  in  a  strong  hissing  whisper  through 
her  closed  teeth,  as  she  touched  the  bay  in  the  carriage  with 
her  whip,  and  with  a  leap  they  proceeded.  But  Martha  des- 
perately caught  at  the  reins  of  the  other  horse,  and  grasped 
them — she  could  not,  even  in  her  agony  for  Harry,  bear  to 
think  that  her  other  children  should  receive  such  a  dreadful 
shock  as  this  while  she  was  not  with  them  to  strengthen  them. 
And  the  exhausted  animal  went  on  quietly  for  a  little  time — 
then  he  began  to  plunge  and  rear,  and  turn  towards  home. 
"  Let  him  go — let  him  go,"  again  whispered  Mysie,  now  des- 
perate with  anxiety  and  fright.  "  You  canna  get  lookit  at  the 
roadside  for  handing  him — let  him  go." 

And  Martha  did  let  him  go. 

Not  twenty  yards  farther  on,  their  horse  suddenly  came  to 
a  dead  pause — and  there,  lying  across  the  highway,  was  a  dark 
figure,  with  a  battered  hat  by  its  side,  and  the  face  gleaming 
ghastly  in  the  light  of  Martha's  lantern.  She  was  bending 
over  him  before  Mysie's  first  gasp  of  terror  gave  her  breath ; 
and  Martha's  white  lips  were  calling  upon  God,  upon  God — 
but  no  sound  came  from  them  upon  the  heavy  darkness. 

And  the  heart  beats  faintly  still  in  Harry's  breast,  and  the 
blood  oozes  slowly  from  the  cut  upon  his  brow.  She  feels  it 
warm  upon  her  hands — this  is  how  she  knows  it  to  be  blood — 
as  she  lifts  his  death-like  face  upon  her  knee ;  and  still  as  her 
hand  presses  upon  his  heart,  and  she  bends  her  cheek  to  his 
lips  to  feel  if  he  still  breathes,  Martha  calls  upon  the  name 
of  the  Lord.  The  name — she  can  say  nothing  but  the  name 
— but  in  it  is  all  prayer. 

And  now  she  lifts  him  up  into  her  own  arms,  up  to  *the 


256  HARRY    MUIR. 

fierce  heart  which  has  throbbed  with  passionate  love  for  him  all 
his  life.  Mysie,  humbly  and  with  terror,  asked  to  help  her ; 
but  Martha,  rising  from  her  knee  with  all  her  burden  in  her 
arms,  thrusts  away  unconsciously  the  trembling  aid,  and 
places  him — her  boy,  her  son,  poor  Harry  ! — in  the  carriage 
like  a  child.  Then  through  the  gloom,  which  no  longer  needs 
a  light,  through  the  horror  of  darkness,  which  lies  over  them 
like  a  cloak  of  iron,  pressing  down  upon  their  very  hearts,  and 
hiding  the  face  upon  which  Martha's  eyes  are  fixed  continually, 
though  •  she  can  only  feel  it  where  it  lies  upon  her  knee — 
through  this  night  of  solemn  gloom  and  terror,  which  is  the 
end — home  ! 

And  now,  Harry's  horse  neighs  and  craves  admittance  at 
his  stable-door ;  and  John,  roused  out  of  the  sleep  from  which 
Mysie  had  promised  to  wake  him  on  his  master's  return,  starts 
up  terrified,  and  cannot  find  his  lantern  nor  the  key,  which 
Martha's  trembling  helper  has  left  in  the  stable-door ;  and 
Rose  and  Agnes  rushed  together,  in  terror  which  has  no  voice, 
to  seek  Martha  in  her  room,  and  finding  her  gone,  flee  out 
into  the  impenetrable  darkness  and  call  to  John  for  the 
lamps  he  cannot  find,  and  carry  uncovered  candles — which,  iu 
the  damp  air  will  not  burn — to  the  gate,  with  a  terrible  appre- 
hension of  stumbling  over  Harry  in  their  path  ;  but,  still,  acci- 
dent— any  but  the  slightest — does  not  cross  their  distracted 
minds  and  they  never  once  think  of  death. 

Yet  anguish  and  terrible  dread  come  upon  them  as  they 
struggle  on  along  the  dark  way,  groping  for  they  know  not 
what,  while  the  darkness  blinds  their  eyes,  and  chokes  their 
very  breath.  But  far  on — far  along  the  road,  where  there  is 
a  little  eminence,  half  a  mile  away,  appears  a  faint,  slowly 
moving  light.  Instinctively  drawing  closer  together,  they 
stand,  and  listen,  and  watch  this  speck  in  the  intense  gloom. 
And  Agnes  does  not  know  that  her  incoherent  prayers  are 
said  aloud  ;  nor  does  Rose,  though  she  remembers  words  of 
them  after,  like  the  broken  words  of  a  dream. 

But  the  light  comes  nearer ;  and  John,  who  has  turned 
his  master's  horse  into  the  stable,  and  given  him  water,  comes 
back,  to  grope  his  way  to  his  young  mistress  on  the  road,  and 
stand  beside  her,  watching  the  slow  motion  of  this  distant 
light.  Defenceless  and  open  stands  the  house  of  Allenders, 
where  children  lie  asleep,  serene  and  peaceful,  worn  out  with 
pleasure  ;  and  not  even  the  watchers  at  the  gate,  amid  all 
their  terror  and  apprehension,  have  any  idea  what  it  is,  which 
comes  towards  them  through  the  night. 


HAKRY    MUIR.  257 

What  is  it?  Mysie,  hearing  some  far-off  whisper  of 
voices,  holds  up  her  h\nteru,  unwitting  that  the  chief  light  it 
throws  is  upon  those  two  behind.  Martha,  sitting  rigid  in 
the  carriage,  with  a  face  of  deadly  whiteness  on  her  knee,  and 
her  hand  pressing  upon  the  heart  of  the  passive  insensible  form 
— pressing  against  it,  as  if  the  frail  life  needed  to  be  held 
fast,  lest  it  should  glide  away.  A  shrill  cry  startles  the  dark- 
ness at  their  side,  and  Martha  only  knows  they  have  reached 
the  gate  of  AUenders,  when  she  hears  Harry's  little  gentle 
wife  fall  heavily  upon  the  ground,  and  is  startled  by  the  cry 
of  Rose. 

Mysie,  frightened  and  exhausted,  stopped  the  carriage. 
"  Drive  on  !  "  said  Martha,  and  her  lips  spoke  the  words  half- 
a-dozen  times  before  they  broke,  shrill  and  loud,  upon  Mysie's 
terrified  ear.  '"  Rose,  be  calm.  John,  carry  Agnes  in.  I, 
myself,  will  care  for  Harry  ;  he  is  alive." 

Alive  ! — but  that  was  all ! 

Candles  stood  wasting  on  the  hall  table,  and  the  cold 
black  air  stole  in  heavily,  damp  and  chill.  Upon  the  stairs,  a 
little  white  figure  called  on  Martha  and  Rose,  and  shivered, 
and  cast  looks  of  terror  on  the  open  door.  For  Violet  had 
been  dreaming  of  Harry — dreaming  terrible  dreams — and  she 
could  not  rest. 

^-  Let  me  carry  him.  I'm  stronger  than  you,  and  I'll  be 
as  tender  as  a  woman,"  pleaded  the  awe-stricken  John. 

But  Martha  pushed  him  aside.  "  A  doctor — a  doctor  ! 
instantly  !  " 

It  was  all  she  could  say,  as  she  lifted  up  her  burden. 

It  was  well  for  Martha  that  her  frame  was  strong, 
and  hardly  strung ;  for  Mysie,  who  silently  assisted,  and  sup- 
ported poor  Harry's  feet,  left  still  the  great  weight  of  his  in- 
sensible form  in  Martha's  arms ;  and  Martha  felt  the  strain 
when  it  was  over — she  knew  nothing  of  it  now. 

Alas,  poor  Harry  ! — they  laid  him  on  his  bed  ;  they  clus- 
tered round  him,  the  faces  which  he  had  seen  in  his  imag- 
ination two  little  hours  ago,  so  fresh  and  bright.  In  this 
room,  where  the  fire  was  faintly  dying,  were  arranged  many 
little  things  which  Rose  had  fancied  he  might  want  when  he 
came  home  ;  but  there  he  lay,  with  the  blood  upon  his  brow, 
unconscious,  silent,  with  nothing  but  his  heavy  breathing  to 
tell  them  that  he  was  alive. 

And  immediately  they  heard  the  desperate  gallop  at  which 
John  set  off,  to  bring  the  doctor.  The  doctor — not  Gilbert 
AUenders.  but  a  respectable  surgeon  in  the  neighbourhood — 


258  HARKY    MUIR. 

returned  with  him  without  delay;  and  John  took  especial 
pains  to  inform  him  on  the  road,  that  Alleuders  was  "  as 
muckle  himsel  as  I  am,"  when  they  parted. 

Poor  Harry's  leg  was  broken  again;  he  had  sustained 
some  severe  internal  injuries,  and  was  terribly  bruised  over 
his  whole  frame.  The  surgeon  remained  all  the  night,  and 
did  every  thing  it  was  possible  for  him  to  do,  dispatching 
John  to  Stirling  for  assistance  before  the  dawn.  But  when 
the  grey  still  morning  began  to  steal  into  the  room,  and 
Harry,  faintly  conscious,  lay  moaning  on  his  bed,  Agnes  clasp- 
ing her  hands  in  sorrowful  entreaty ;  and  lifting  up  her  pa- 
thetic eyes  to  the  doctor's  face,  asked  if  there  was  any  hope. 

When  she  asked,  she  had  scarcely  any  doubt  there  was. 
Danger,  suffering,  even  positive  agonies  of  endurance  were 
before  him,  she  saw  ;  but  Harry's  wife  did  not  think  he  could 
die. 

"  We  have  always  hope  so  long  as  there  is  life,"  said  the 
doctor,  turning  his  head  away. 

And  Agnes  gasped  and  fell  again.  It  was  the  warrant  of 
death. 

"  Will  he  die  ?  "  said  Martha,  crushing  her  hands  together 
as  she  too  looked,  but  with  eyes  that  demanded  an  answer,  in 
the  doctor's  face. 

He  waved  his  hand,  and  again  turned  away.  The  good 
man  saw  the  mighty  love  which  would  detain  and  hold  this 
parting  soul,  and  he  could  not  meet  its  despair. 

"  Harry  will  die  !  " — no  one  said  it ;  no  one  spoke  those 
terrible  words  of  doom  ;  but  it  seemed  to  them  all  that  the  air 
was  heavy  with  the  sentence ;  and  from  Martha,  who  never 
wearied  and  never  closed  her  eyes,  ministering  by  his  bedside 
within,  to  little  Lettie  crouching  close  to  his  door,  and  pray- 
ing that  God  would  take  her — only  take  her,  and  save  "  my 
Harry  ;"  there  was  not  one  among  them  who  did  not  carry  in 
their  very  face  this  great  and  terrible  doom. 

Wiping  the  deadly  dews  from  his  brow,  administering  to 
him  the  almost  hourly  opiates,  which  no  hand  in  the  house,  ex- 
cept her  own,  not  even  the  surgeon's,  was  steady  enough  to 
prepare,  Martha  watched  by  him  night  and  day.  Harry  was 
seldom  conscious,  seldom  able  to  recognize,  or  address  his 
nurse  ;  but  in  his  broken  ravings  were  things  that  touched  her 
to  the  heart ;  things  of  the  pure  youth — the  household  life  ; 
nothing — they  all  thanked  God  for  the  especial  mercy — 
nothing  mingling  with  these  innocent  remembrances,  of  his 
times  of  secret  sin. 


HARRY    MUIR.  259 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

Fond  dreaming  hearts — an  old  man  and  a  child ! 

"  Miss  Lettie,  the  auld  man's  ta'en  an  ill  turn.  He  cries  for 
you  to  gang  and  tell  him  how  the  maister  is — will  ye  gang  to 
the  loft  and  speak  to  the  auld  man,  Miss  Lettie  ?  " 

Violet  left  her  place  at  Harry's  door,  and  went. 

Old  Adam  lay  upon  his  bed  in  his  ordinary  dress,  with  his 
long,  brown,  lean  fingers  lying  crossed  upon  the  homely  cover, 
as  if  they  were  clutching  it — but  in  reality  they  grasped 
nothing.  A  feeble  tremble  was  in  his  frame  as  he  lay  vacantly 
looking  up  to  the  rafters  above  him  ;  and  his  ashy  face,  though 
indeed  it  was  scarcely  paler  than  usual,  struck  Violet  with 
terror,  as  if  it  had  been  the  very  face  of  death, 

"  Oh  Dragon,  my  Harry  !  "  cried  poor  little  Lettie. 

"  They  tell  me  the  horse  had  thrown  him,  and  dragged  him 
alang  the  road  wi'  ae  fit  aye  the  stirrup — was  that  true,  Missie  ? 
and  I  aye  kent  mysel  it  was  a  thrawart  beast,  and  no  to  be 
depended  on,"  said  Dragon.  "  I've  been  lying  here  thinking 
on  the  puir  lad,  this  haill  morning  ;  and  I  was  just  putting  it 
ower  in  my  mind  if  it  wadna  be  best  to  crave  the  Lord  to  take 
me,  and  spare  the  young  life  ;  but  I  never  can  win  that  length 
though  I  try — for  I  aye  mind  I'm  a  harmless  auld  body,  doing 
ill  to  nae  man,  and  what  for  should  I  ask  to  die?  " 

"  Would  G-od  do  that.  Dragon  ?  Would  God  take  some- 
body else,  and  leave  Harry  ?  Oh  !  will  ye  ask  Him  to  take 
me  ?  "  cried  Harry's  little  sister,  "  for  he's  very  ill,  and  Martha 
thinks  he  will  die.  Dragon,  if  God  would  take  you  and  me, 
and  save  Harry,  would  you  no  come  ?  and  God  would  aye  let 
us  see  the  sun  shining  on  the  water,  and  a'  body  blythe  in  Al- 
lenders — Dragon,  if  we  were  in  heaven  !  " 

And  Violet's  passionate  cry,  and  voice  choked  with  sobbing, 
again  awoke  the  old  man's  torpid  heart.  He  raised  himself 
from  his  bed  feebly,  and  leaning  on  his  elbow,  looked  at  the 
little  figure  kneeling  by  his  bedside,  with  its  clasped  hands, 
and  gleaming  eyes. — and  Adam  Comrie  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"  Missie,  I'm  auld — I  whiles  forget  things  I  ken  weel,  and 
speak  as  if  I  was  a  bairn  mysel ;  but  ae  life  canna  redeem 


260  HARRY    MUIR. 

anither,  little  bairn.  Na,  na,  I  wad  gang  wi'  ye  bljthe,  puir 
wee  innocent  heart,  to  take  care  of  ye — if  God  didna  send  an 
angel  to  take  care  of  us  baith — "  said  the  old  man,  with  a  momen- 
tary wandering,  '•  but  there  never  was  but  Ane.  that  could  redeem 
lives  out  of  God's  hand  with  His  ain.  We're  a'  forfeit  our- 
selves, bairnie ;  if  my  life  was  mine,  and  yours  your  ain,  we 
might  offer  them  for  Mr.  Hairy  ;  but  God  has  your  bit  heartie 
in  His  hand,  as  well  as  mine,  and  will  lay  them  quiet  when  it 
is  His  pleasure,  and  no  a  day  before.  There  ivas  Ane  that 
had  His  life  free  to  lay  down,  and  free  to  take  up — and  there 
was  but  Ane.  I've  had  glimmerings  o'  Him  mysel,"  con- 
tinued Dragon,  fixing  his  unsteady  eyes  on  the  roof,  and  wan- 
dering from  the  first  subject  into  the  more  immediate  personal 
interest  which  his  own  words  recalled  to  him,  "  glimmerings 
like  blinks  of  the  sun  out  of  clouds ;  but  if  I  whiles  lose  mind 
of  the  Lord — for  I'm  auld  and  feeble,  and  sae  lang  in  this 
world,  that  it's  ill  to  believe  I  have  to  gang  away — if  /whiles 
lose  mind,  that  am  but  a  puir  useless  creature,  is  that  to  say 
that  He  loses  mind  o'  me  ? — as  if  He  didna  ken  what  was  the 
guid  reason,  wherefore,  I  wasna  taken  hence  in  my  strength, 
but  left  to  wear  out  my  days  like  a  sleep,  and  to  forget  !  Ane 
might  think  the  like  o'  me,  sae  aged  and  frail,  had  been  forgot- 
ten out  of  the  course  of  nature  ;  and  left  because  He  didna 
mind — but  never  you  trow  that,  bairnie — I  ken  He  minds,  and 
when  it's  my  time,  He'll  send  for  me,  as  thoughtful  as  if  I  was 
the  grandest  man  on  this  earth.  What's  about  my  memory, 
though  it  whiles  can  carry  naething  but  bairnly  things?  Is 
that  to  rule  His,  think  ye,  that  grows  not  auld  forever?  And 
I  ken  He  never  forgets." 

Absorbed  and  full  of  awe,  Violet  followed  unconsciously 
the  half-palsied  wave  of  the  old  man's  head  and  figure  as  he 
spoke,  and  watched  the  unusual  gleam  which  shot  from  the 
eyes,  which  he  in  vain  tried  to  fix  on  the  rafter.  Poor,  dim 
unsteady  eyes  !  they  glanced  about  in  every  direction,  as  if 
they  possessed  some  distinct  energy  and  will  of  their  own. 

But  when  Adam  sank  back  on  his  pillow,  Lettie  shivered 
and  thought  she  had  forgotten  Harry — poor  Harry  !  She 
could  still  hear  his  moan  in  her  ears. 

"  Oh,  my  Harry,  my  Harry  !  Dragon,  do  ye  think  God  will 
take  him  up — up — yonder  beside  Him  ?  "  and  Lettie  turned 
her  eyes  full  of  dark  wistful  reverence  and  fear  upon  the  old 
man's  face. 

"  Wad  God  take  you,  and  me,  think  ye,  to  save  him?"  said 


HARRY    MUIR.  261 

Dragon,  now  wandering  back  into  a  mild  half-delirious  waking 
sleep,  ••  but  then  we're  forfeit — forfeit — and  there  was  but  Ane. 
I'm  content  to  gang,  bairnie,  content  to  gang — where's  your 
hand  ?  and  I  dinna  ken  how  we  maun  travel,  but  the  angel 
will  tell  us  when  he  comes  ;  and  I'll  take  care  o'  ye  a'  the 
way,  for  we're  no  to  expect  the  angel,  that's  a  stranger,  to 
take  heed  to  a'  a  little  bairn's  wants  like  the  like  of  me.  Ye 
can  say  we\e  ready.  Ye  can  say  I've  got  the  better  o'  mysel, 
and  I'm  willing  to  gang," 

But  Lettie,  excited  and  terrified,  dared  not  say  aloud  the 
strange  prayer,  '•'  Take  Dragon  and  me,  and  save  Harry," 
which  was  in  her  heart. 

And  Dragon's  feeble  hand  tightened  on  hers,  till  Lettie 
looking  up  in  a  fright  and  sudden  fear,  saw  that  his  head  had 
fallen  back,  and  that  an  ashy  paleness  like  that  of  his  face  was 
creeping  over  the  rigid  fingers  which  grasped  her  own.  But 
Dragon's  loud  and  heavy  breathing  showed  her  that  this  was 
not  death,  Lettie  withdrew  her  hand  with  pain  and  difficulty 
from  his  grasp,  and  ran  to  call  assistance.  She  pressed  her 
finger  on  her  own  pulse,  as  she  followed*  Mysie  and  the  doctor 
back  again  to  the  old  man's  bedside,  and  a  strange  cold  thrill 
of  fear  and  expectation  shot  through  her  frame.  Poor  little 
visionary  Lettie !  She  thought  her  prayer  was  heard — she 
thought  the  angel  had  called  Dragon,  and  it  became  her  to  be 
ready  now. 

But  Lettie's  shivering  hope  was  vain.  A  slight  almost 
momentary  "  shock"  had  come  upon  the  old  man,  but  it  pass- 
ed away.  It  passed  away — nature  began  to  warm  again  in  the 
withered  worn-out  frame,  and  Lettie's  pulse  beat  true  and  steady, 
with  a  young  life  whose  delicate  strength  should  yet  bear  many 
things — while  hour  by  hour  the  tide  of  strong  manhood  ebbed, 
and  Harry,  poor  Harry  !  drew  nearer  to  his  grave. 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

And  Love  himself,  as  he  were  armed  in  steel, 
Steps  forth,  and  girds  him  for  the  strife  with  death. 

PiCCOLOMINI. 

The    doctors  were   in  almost    constant    attendance — the  min- 
ister of  the  parish   came  to  pray  by  the  bedside   of  the  half- 


262  HARRY    MUIK. 

conscious  patient,  wliose  heavy  moans  broke  in  upon  his  sup- 
lication.  The  children  of  Maidlin,  awe-stricken  and  full  of 
wonder  and  curiosity,  hung  about  the  gate  of  Allenders,  tell- 
ing each  other  how  Harry  fell,  and  how  the  trail  was  found  on 
the  road,  where  his  horse  had  dragged  him  along  the  damp  . 
loose  soil.  And  their  mothers  came  in  bands  in  the  early  af- 
ternoon to  speak  of  it  with  kindred  awe  and  mystery,  and 
stealing  round  by  the  back  of  the  house,  beckonea  Mysie  out 
to  learn  from  her  how  the  sufferer  was.  More  dignified  peo- 
ple, and  even  Sir  John  Dunlop  himself,  sent  messengers  to  in- 
quire for  poor  Harry  ;  and  Gilbert  Allenders,  like  an  ill-omen- 
ed shadow,  continually  hovered  about  the  door. 

Poor  Harry !  they  never  spoke  to  each  other,  these  women 
who  watched  him  ;  but  Agnes  and  Rose  perceived  when  they 
approached  the  bed  that  it  was  only  a  strong  self-restraint 
which  prevented  Martha  from  thrusting  them  away.  She  was 
jealous  now,  even  of  them — she  could  not  bear  to  see  him 
touched  by  any  hand  but  her  own — as  if  it  was  her  hand  alone 
which  could  touch  him  without  inflicting  pain ;  and  they  saw 
her  shiver  when  the  surgeon  drew  near  him,  as  if  with  bodily 
fear.  And  sometimes,  when  Martha  laid  Agnes  down  upon 
the  sofa  in  this  sad  sick  room,  and  covered  her  tenderly  as  if 
she  were  a  child,  an  hour  of  feverish  sleep  would  fall  upon  the 
little  wife  ;  and  Rose,  when  sent  to  her  own  room  for  the 
night,  after  lingering  at  the  door,  and  wandering  up  and  down 
to  see  if  anything  could  possibly  be  wanted  which  was  not 
ready,  would  weep  herself  into  a  trance  of  slumber,  from  which 
the  awakening  was  bitter — but  Martha  never  slept. 

And  Harry  lay  upon  his  bed,  unconscious,  and  never  said 
a  word  which  testified  that  he  knew  them  there.  Conscious  of 
pain — conscious  of  the  agony  of  being  touched  or  moved,  which 
drew  from  him  those  shrill  cries  and  heavy  moanings — and 
with  dim,  dreamy  eyes,  which  seemed  to  recognize  sometimes 
where  it  was  he  lay,  as  they  wandered  over  the  well-known 
furniture  ;  but  though  he  spoke  of  them  all  in  his  time  of 
greater  ease,  and  addressed  them  by  loving  names,  which 
brought  a  swooning  deadly  sickness  over  Agnes,  and  convul- 
sed Martha  with  a  terrible  tenderness,  he  never  spoke  to  them 
as  present  beside  him ;  wandering  broken  lines  of  thought, 
strange  visible  associations  which  connected  one  distant  thing 
with  another,  came  from  him  in  an  interrupted  flow — and 
sometimes  strange  half  dreaming  prayers,  exclaimed  vehement- 
ly at  one  time,  at  another  repeated  with  a  placid  smile  like  a 


HARRY    MUIR.  26S 

child's — "  Lead  us  not  into  temptation — deliver  us  from  evil," 
made  up  the  prolonged  and  audible  reverie  of  Harry's  stricken 
soul. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day,  while  Martha  sat  be- 
side him  on  one  side,  and  Agnes,  with  her  face  buried  in  the 
coverlet,  knelt  by  the  bed,  silently  praying  and  weeping,  on 
the  other,  a  gradual  awakening  came  to  Harry's  face.  Mar- 
tha, whose  look  never  left  it,  saw  the  dreamy  eyes  light  up,  at 
first  faintly,  but  gradually  rising  into  life.  Then  he  saw 
Agnes,  and  stealing  his  feeble  hand  along  the  bed,  laid  it  on 
her  head.  She  started  up  with  a  faint  cry,  and  Harry's  trance 
was  broken. 

"  Am  I  to  die  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  whisper,  when  for  some 
moments  they  had  held  his  hands  in  silence — his  hands,  one 
of  which  was  bathed  in  the  tears  of  Agnes,  while  on  the  other 
had  fallen  a  single  great  burning  drop,  falling  from  Martha's 
heavy  eyelid,  like  a  drop  of  living  fire. 

But  no  answer  came  to  him,  except  the  convulsive  sobs  of 
Agnes,  and  a  tightened  and  clinging  pressure  of  the  hand 
which  lay  in  Martha's  grasp. 

"  Then  let  me  see  them,  Martha,"  said  Harry,  faintly  ; 
"  let  me  see  them  all  once  again.  You  will  be  better  without 
me,  and  I  will  be  better  away.  Oh  God  !  my  God  !  I  have 
lost  a  life." 

"  But  not  a  soul,  Harry — not  a  soul,"  cried  Martha,  bend- 
ing down  her  head,  to  kiss  with  burning  vehemence  the  hand 
on  which  her  tears  fell  now  like  hail-drops.  "  First  look  up, 
Harry,  my  son  !  my  son  ! — and  there  is  another  life  !  " 

And  the  dim  eyes  turned  upward  to  the  roof — to  the 
human  mortal  screen  built  between  him  and  the  sky  ;  and 
saw,  not  the  heavens  opened,  and  Jesus  standing  at  the  right 
hand  of  God,  but  only  a  household  of  weeping  women,  half 
frantic  with  love  and  eagerness,  crying  aloud  for  him  before 
the  everlasting  throne,  where  mercy  sits  and  judgment ;  and 
a  blank  numbness  was  on  Harry's  soul.  He  could  not  throw 
himself  before  this  footstool,  and  ask  with  his  last  breath  for 
that  deliverance  which  comes  from  Him  who  never  thrust  one 
empty  away.  Sleep  was  upon  him,  and  he  craved  repose ;  he 
trusted  to  them  who  interceded — he  leaned  with  faint  con- 
sciousness upon  their  supplications  ;  but  for  himself  he  could 
ask  nothing — his  heart  was  voiceless,  apathetic,  asleep. 

"  Pray  for  me,  Martha,"  said  Harry,  faintly. 

For  this  was  all  his  hope. 


264  HARRY    MUIR. 

Pray  for  him  !  When  was  it,  working  or  resting,  that 
Martha  forgot  thus  to  pray  ? 

'•  And  gather  them  all,"  said  Harry — "  gather  them  all  in 
here,  that  I  may  see  them  before  I  die." 

He  said  the  words  with  a  faint,  mournful  pathos.  He  was. 
not  rebellious  to  his  doom — poor  Harry  !  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  he  was  sinking  into  some  pensive,  gentle  rest.  This 
was  how  the  visible  death,  drawing  near,  disclosed  itself,  in 
the  midst  of  his  great  pain,  to  his  heart. 

And  Martha  called  them  in,  one  by  one — Rose,  Lettie, 
Katie  Calder,  little  Harry,  and  the  infant  boy.  You  would 
have  thought,  to  hear  him  speak,  that  this  dying  man  was 
passing  away  into  the  heaven  which  he  already  knew  for  home, 
and  that  there  interposed  no  obscuring  cloud  between  him  and 
the  sky  ;  or  that  this  suffering  of  death  consciously  made  up 
for  all  the  evil  that  had  gone  before — for  neither  remorse 
nor  terror  overshadowed  Harry,  nor  did  he  speak  of  faith. 
Poor  Harry  !  this  benumbed  and  quiet  peace  seemed  all  he 
desired. 

And  when  he  had  bidden  them  farewell,  gently,  faintly, 
without  any  violence  of  emotion — with  a  perfect  calm  and 
submission,  and  what  people  call  resignation  to  the  will  of 
Grod — Harry  laid  himself  down  again  to  die. 

But  his  head.had  scarcely  fallen  back  again  upon  the  pil- 
low, when  he  started  violentlj^ — a  start  which  wrung  from 
him  a  half  scream  of  pain. 

"  Send  for  Lindsay,  Martha  ! — send  for  Robertson,  in 
Stirling  !  Any  one — any  one  you  can  get  most  easily  ! — at 
once,  before  I  die  !  " 

Without  hesitation,  Martha  went  to  obey  his  order  ;  and 
John,  who  was  swift  and  ready,  was  in  the  saddle  in  a  very 
few  minutes,  galloping  to  Stirling  for  a  lawyer. 

But  when  Martha  returned  to  the  sick  chamber,  Harry 
had  relapsed  into  unconsciousness,  and  she  sat  down,  watching 
by  him  silently,  as  she  had  done  before.  Within  a  few  hours 
the  lawyer  came.  The  whole  country  rang  with  the  news  of 
the  accident,  and  people  forgot  how  they  had  condemned  poor 
Allenders,  in  pity  for  him,  and  for  the  family,  whose  singular 
devotion  to  him  it  needed  little  discernment  to  discover.  So 
Mr.  Robertson  had  left  his  house  at  once,  to  his  own  incon- 
venience, to  come  to  the  dying  man.  But  Harry  lay  upon 
his  bed,  communing  aloud  with  his  own  heart ;  and  the  very 
lawyer   turned   aside  and  wept,  as  he  heard  this   heart  laid 


HARRY   MUIR.  265 

open.  A  sinful  man  had  Harry  been  ! — shipwrecked  and  lost ! 
Yet  it  was  a  child's  heart ! 

And  Martha's  words,  or  an  influence  more  wonderful  than 
them,  was  breathing  on  the  chaos  of  this  disturbed  and  wan- 
dering soul.  Poor  Harry  !  And  his  lips  spoke  loud  the  texts 
and  psalms  which  he  had  learned  a  child,  at  Martha's  knee. 
In  the  room  there  was  a  hush  like  death,  through  which  now 
and  then  the  restrained  sob  of  Agnes  struggled  faintly.  She 
was  still  lying  in  the  same  position,  her  face  hidden,  in  pros- 
trate, powerless  grief;  and  Rose  knelt  beside  her,  pale  as 
death,  fixing  the  eyes,  from  which  her  tears  fell  down  continu- 
ally, upon  Harry's  face,  while  her  throat  quivered  now  and 
then  with  a  convulsive  gasp.  Martha,  at  his  other  side,  with 
her  head  bent  upon  her  folded  arms,  shook  with  great  trem- 
blings, like  successive  waves — but  no  sound  came  from  her ; 
and  the  lawyer,  afraid  to  move,  and  full  of  awe,  stood  silent  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed.  Through  this  scene  ascended  Harry's  voice, 
low  and  faint,  but  distinctly  audible ;  and  now  he  reads  from 
his  child's  memory,  what  has  been  read  by  his  bedside  only 
recently,  in  hope  to  catch  some  passing  gleam  of  consciousness 
— the  last  words  of  the  Lord  ! 

0  !  wonderful,  benign  and  tender  words  ! — spoken  under 
the  very  death-shadow,  by  that  One  who  alone  was  free  to  re- 
deem— who  can  tell  what  was  their  influence  upon  the  rapt 
soul,  which,  past  all  human  intercourse,  was  still  open  to  the 
dealings  of  the  Lord  ?  Mysterious  awe  and  wonder  hushed 
even  their  very  prayers.  No  human  speech  could  move  him 
now,  or  reach  his  veiled  and  hidden  soul :  but  the  way  was  all 
open  to  God. 

All  through  the  night  Harry  continued  thus — with  broken 
prayers,  and  words  of  Holy  Writ,  mingling  with  the  common 
things  to  which  he  sometimes  returned — and  towards  the  dawn 
he  fell  into  a  broken  sleep. 

The  lawyer,  meanwhile,  waited.  It  was  a  singular  kind- 
ness ;  but  Harry  might  awake  out  of  his  trance  at  any  mo- 
ment, and  this  man,  who  had  a  kindly  heart,  was  concerned  for 
the  family,  and  sufficiently  interested  to  give  his  time  without 
much  grudging.  And  they  had  all  a  vague  expectation  that 
Harry  would  awake  from  this  sleep,  in  possession  of  his  facul- 
ties. 

They  were  right,  he  did  so  ;  and  after  a  few  minutes  of 
repose  and  contemplation,  and  of  tender  words  to  those  around 
him.  he  started  again,  and  asked  for  the  lawyer.  Mr.  Robert- 
12 


266  HARRY    MUIR. 

son  came  from  the  library,  where  he  had  been  sitting,  and 
Harry  sent  his  sisters  and  his  wife  away. 

They  were  not  long  shut  out  from  the  sick  room.  The 
lawyer  left  the  chamber  and  the  house,  with  a  farewell  of  deep 
and  melancholy  sympathy  ;  and  for  about  an  hour  after,  Harry 
continued  conscious  of  their  presence.  But  this  consciousness 
was  broken  and  disturbed  :  and  afterwards  he  sank  back  into 
a  slumberous,  interupted  reverie,  from  which  he  never  woke 
again. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 


'Tis  over — over :  here  is  no  present  noAv ; 
All  life  lies  in  the  past 

Old  Plat. 


There  is  a  deep  hush  upon  Allenders,  the  silence  of  death ; 
and  quiet  footsteps  glide  about  another  sick  room,  passing  by 
the  door,  where  lies  one  who  shall  want  human  tendance  never 
again.  Poor  little  Agnes,  worn  out  and  broken,  lies  there 
very  ill ;  and  they  are  watching  her  night  and  day,  as  a  week 
ago  they  watched  Harry — but  with  better  hope. 

And  now  all  the  dreary  business  of  this  time  falls  upon 
Martha.  She  thinks  they  will  craze  her — those  necessary  di- 
rections which  she  is  compelled  to  give  ;  and  Martha  cannot 
afford  to  risk  either  her  mind  or  her  health  for  the  family's 
sake,  which  now  hangs  on  her  hands  to  be  provided  for.  So 
the  second  day  after  Harry's  death  she  wrote  to  Charteris,  the 
only  friend,  near  at  hand,  to  whom  she  could  apply. 

Martha's  letter  was  abrupt  and  short ;  she  could  not  inti- 
mate what  had  come  upon  them  in  many  words. 

^'  My  brother  Harry  is  dead  " — this  was  her  letter — "  Ag- 
nes is  ill ;  and  I  alone  am  left  to  do  what  this  trial  requires 
to  be  done.  You  were  his  friend,  and  wished  him  well.  Will 
you  come  to  my  aid  in  this  extremity  for  his  sake  ?  " 

It  might  have  been  the  letter  of  a  cold  heart.  Cuthbert 
knew  better  than  to  think  it  was. 

And  from  the  window  of  Agnes's  sick  room,  Martha,  grave 
and  tearless,  watched  them  carry  away  the  dead.  There  was 
a  long  funeral  train,  for  now  that  he  was  dead,  every  one  was 
ready  to  pay  respect  to  poor  Harry.     Little  Lettie  weeping  as 


HARRY    MUIR.  267 

if  her  heart  would  break,  had  seen  the  hearse  stand  at  the 
door ;  now  she  grew  suddenly  still,  chill,  and  full  of  mysteri- 
ous terror  ;  and  when  Mysie  lifted  her  from  the  window,  and 
softly  opened  the  shutters,  letting  in  the  hitherto  excluded 
sunshine,  Lettie  sat  down  on  the  carpet  in  the  light,  and  shi- 
vered and  sobbed,  but  could  not  weep.  They  had  carried  him 
away — poor  Harry  !  where  never  mortal  ear  should  hear,  or 
mortal  eye  look  on  him  again  ;  and  Lottie's  little,  trembling 
heart  was  overpowered  with  irresistible  longing  to  see  his  face  ; 
and  she  could  not  remember  it — could  not  recall,  except  in  a 
mist,  the  features  she  knew  so  well. 

A  few  of  the  most  considerable  followers  of  the  funeral, 
Sir  John  Dunlop  and  his  son,  Mr.  Haig  of  Foggo,  and  Cuth- 
bert  Charteris,  who  had  arrived  two  days  before,  and  arranged 
everything,  returned  with  the  minister,  Mr.  Robertson  the 
Stirling  writer,  and  Uncle  Sandy,  to  the  house.  It  was  a  con- 
siderable surprise  to  all,  to  find,  that  there  was  a  will,  and 
they  returned  to  be  present  while  it  was  read. 

The  party  assembled  in  the  dining-room,  where  the  blinds 
were  still  closed,  and  the  funeral  bread  and  wine  remained  on 
the  table.  When  they  had  waited  for  some  time,  Martha  and 
Rose  and  little  Lettie  came  in.  They  were  all  already  dress- 
ed in  the  deepest  mourning,  and  Rose,  trembling  and  half-hys- 
teric, was  deadly  pale  ;  her  eyes  wandered  from  side  to  side, 
and  she  held  up  her  head  with  a  mechanical  motion,  as  if  only 
half  conscious  where  she  was.  Lettie,  wistful  and  full  of  mys- 
terious trembling,  was  still  keenly  alive  to  everything  that 
passed,  and  attended,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  every  speaker 
with  an  intense  regard,  which  riveted  every  word  upon  her 
mind.  On  Martha's  usual  appearance  there  was  little  change. 
Her  eyes  were  more  hollow,  perhaps,  and  the  wrinkles  deeper 
in  her  brow  ;  but  that  was  all.  Uncle  Sandy,  passive  and 
absorbed,  sat  by  them,  in  perfect  silence  The  old  man  was 
greatly  shaken  with  this  unexpected  grief 

•'  Before  we  begin  this  business,"  said  the  minister,  "  let 
us  pray  again  with  and  for  this  afflicted  family.  I  am  sure 
they  have  all  our  deepest  sympathy  and  good  wishes.  Let  us 
commend  them  to  the  God  of  consolatioDS." 

They  were  all  standing  before  he  concluded  ;  but  Cuth- 
bert  saw  the  little  gasp  and  totter  with  which  Rose  left  her 
chair,  closing  her  eyes  with  the  blindness  of  a  worn-out  heart. 
He  had  not  time  to  think  if  his  impulse  was  prudent ;  it  was 
enough  that  he  could  not  stand  by,  and  see  her  unsupported, 


268  HARRY    MUIR. 

while  he  was  there  to  give  her  help.  He  stepped  forward 
hastily,  and  taking  both  her  hands  into  his  own,  drew  one  of 
them  through  his  arm^  and  held  up  her  weakness  with  his 
strength.  A  little  audible  sob  came  from  the  overcharged 
breast  of  Rose.  She  did  not  think  of  Cuthbert,  nor  was  he 
sufficiently  callous  to  believe  she  could.  She  was  thinking  of 
poor  Harry  in  his  new  grave,  and  longing,  like  Lettie,  to  see 
his  face  once  more  ;  but  she  leaned  upon  the  strong  arm 
which  supported  her,  and  a  vague,  unconscious  comfort  came 
to  Rose's  heart. 

But  Martha,  whose  fate  it  was  to  stand  alone — to  whom 
no  one  came  to  offer  support — whose  heart  knew  its  own  bit- 
terness, and  whose  cares  there  was  none  to  share  or  to  lighten, 
held  with  both  hands  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  bent  over  it 
heavily  with  a  stoop  like  the  stoop  of  age.  Lettie,  standing 
near  her,  drew  close  to  Martha  with  the  same  impulse  which 
drew  Cuthbert  to  Rose,  and  Lettie  laid  her  head  softly  against 
her  elder  sister's  arm.  It  moved  the  silent  mourner  into  sud- 
den irrestrainable  tears,  and  she  put  out  the  arm  which  long 
exhaustion  and  straining  had  made  almost  rigid,  and  drew  the 
child  into  her  heart,  pressing  her  there  with  a  convulsive 
grasp.  So  were  the  sisters  helped  through  this  painful  hour, 
each  as  suited  her  best. 

When  they  were  again  seated,  Martha  spoke : 

"  My  sister  is  ill — Mrs.  Allenders — she  cannot  receive 
you,,  gentlemen,  nor  thank  you.  I  thank  you  in  her  stead.  I 
thank  you  for  paying  this  respect — for  doing  all  the  honour 
that  can  be  done  now — I  thank  you — I  thank  you.  Have  I 
to  do  anything  more  7  " 

And  Martha  looked  round  for  a  moment  vacantly ;  she  was 
forgetting  herself  like  one  in  a  dream. 

Then  the  lawyer  rose  and  read  the  will.  It  bequeathed 
all  the  lands — everything  to  which  Harry  died  possessed — to 
Martha  Muir  Allenders.  There  was  nothing  in  it  but  the 
barest  words,  which  made  it  a  lawful  document,  and  Harry's 
signature  at  the  end. 

A  violent  start  came  over  Martha — a  strange  surprise  upon 
the  strangers  present.  "Poor  little  Mrs.  Allenders!"  they 
whispered  to  themselves,  and  wondered  whether  she  would 
contest  this  will  or  no,  or  if  it  was  worth  her  while,  as  they 
heard  the  land  was  greatly  burdened.  The  only  persons  pre- 
sent who  evinced  no  wonder,  were  Rose  and  little  Lettie,  to 
whom  it  seemed  the  most  natural  arrangement  that  Martha 


HARRY    MUIR.  269 

should  be  their  family  head  ;  but  Sir  John  Dunlop  rose  coldly 
to  shake  hands  with  Miss  Allenders  of  Allenders.  He  had 
no  sympathy  with  her  now. 

"  Stay,"  said  Martha,  "  stay,  I  beg ;  there  is  something 
more  to  be  said.  Was  he — he — able  to  execute  this  when  he 
did  it.  Was  his  mind  clear  ?  Tell  me — let  me  not  say  his 
name  more  than  I  must." 

"  Of  sound  mind,"  said  the  writer  gravely,  "  with  perfect 
knowledge  of  what  he  was  doing — cooler  than  I  am  now ;  he 
said  he  had  broken  your  heart  and  lost  your  hopes — that  he 
had  nothing  remaining  but  the  land,  and  he  would  give  it  to 
you,  to  make  a  better  use  of  it  than  he  had  done." 

"  He  had  remaining  that  was  dearer  than  the  land,  and  he 
bequeathed  them  to  me,"  said  Martha  with  difficulty.  "  If 
this  land  is  mine  now,  bear  me  witness  that  it  is  only  for  the 
boy — only  for  little  Harry,  his  heir,  for  Agnes  and  her  other 
child.  I  take  the  trust  since  he  gave  it — but  nothing  is  mine 
— I  tell  you  nothing  is  mine.  Mr.  Charteris,  I  trust  it  to  you, 
to  see  a  deed  made  equal  to  this  will  securing  the  land  to  his 
lawful  heir.  Now,  may  we  go  away?  I  am  faint  and  ex- 
hausted— I  cannot  speak  ;  but  thank  you — thank  you.  Our 
best  thanks  to  you  all — to  all  who  have  been  here  to-day — 
for  the  respect — for  the  honour." 

And,  as  they  came  in,  the  three  sisters  left  the  room. 

But  the  lawyer  shook  his  head  when  Guthbert  asked  him 
what  he  knew  of  Harry's  affairs. 

"  Heavy  debts,  heavy  debts,"  said  Mr.  Robertson — "  I 
hear  as  much  as  five  thousand  pounds — and  how  can  they  ever 
pay  that,  off  four  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  a-year,  which  is  all 
the  estate  yields.  My  opinion  is,  as  a  private  friend,  that  they 
should  sell  the  land.  I  cannot  tell  just  now  how  much,  but 
certainly  it  will  require  a  heavy  sum  for  a  year  or  two  to  keep 
up  the  cultivation  the  way  it  has  been  begun.  No  doubt  it 
will  be  very  hard  to  give  it  up  after  such  a  capital  is  sunk  in 
these  fields ;  but  then,  unless  they  have  good  friends  to  back 
them,  how  can  they  ever  try  to  carry  on  with  such  a  load  1 
And  I  hear  there's  one  thousand  of  the  debt,  at  least,  at  ex- 
travagant interest.     My  opinion  is,  they  should  sell  the  land." 

"  I  don't  think  they  will  ever  consent  to  that,"  said  Cuth- 
bcrt. 

"  It's  easy  to  see,"  said  the  writer  earnestly  ;  "  deduct  two 
hundred  and  fifty  for  interest,  it  leaves  them  two  hundred  to 
live  on — plenty,  I  confess,  for  a  family  of  women,  especially 


270  HARRY    MUIR. 

when  there  is  a  person  of  resolution  among  them  like  Miss 
Allenders  ;  but  if  she  should  live  a  hundred  years,  she'll  never 
be  able  pay  a  penny  of  the  principal  off  that.  You  are  a 
friend,  Mr.  Charteris — I  think  you  should  advise  Miss  Allen- 
ders to  sell  the  land." 

"  She  herself  knows  best.  I  will  speak  to  her."  said  Cuth- 
bert ;  ''  it  depends  entirely  on  what  she  means  to  do." 

A  week  after,  they  were  able  to  lift  Agnes  from  her  bed 
to  a  fireside  sofa.  Her  fever  was  gone  ;  but  the  sweet  conva- 
lescence of  an  invalid  surrounded  by  loves  and  cares,  was  sad 
and  heavy  to  the  young  widow — for  everything  reminded  her 
of  Harry.  She  listened  unawares  to  passing  sounds  without, 
and  started  and  thought  he  was  coming — fancied  she  heard 
his  step  on  the  stair,  and  the  little  cheerful  stir  with  which 
he  was  wont  to  enter  the  outer  room  into  which  her  own 
opened  ;  and  then  she  wept — poor  youthful  broken  heart ! — 
but  there  was  relief  in  those  floods  of  tears. 

They  were  all  sitting  round  her — Martha  close  by  her  on 
the  sofa,  supporting  and  gently  moving,  when  she  wished  it, 
her  delicate  feeble  frame.  And  Rose  held  the  baby  up  to  her, 
while  little  Harry,  wondering,  and  solemnly  silent,  stood  by 
her,  with  his  arm  resting  on  her  knee.  Uncle  Sandy,  much 
shaken,  and  looking  ten  years  older,  stood  behind  at  the  win- 
dow, trying,  with  much  exertion,  to  compose  himself,  and  speak 
to  Agnes  of  the  duty  and  necessity  of  resignation  :  but  the 
good  old  man  needed  the  exhortation  as-  much  as  she  did. 
Lettie,  last  of  all,  sat  on  a  stool  by  the  fire  very  silent,  prac- 
tising a  stitch  of  "  opening  "  which  she  had  importuned  Rose 
to  teach  her ;  and  Katie  Calder,  behind  Lettie,  looked  over 
her  shoulder,  and  learned  the  stitch  too. 

"  What  are  we  to  do,  Martha  ?  "  said  Agnes  feebly.  Tell 
me,  I  will  soon  be  well  now — are  we  to  go  away?  " 

Martha  laid  her  hand  on  little  Harry's  head,  and  drew  him 
into  the  midst.  The  child  stood  gravely  silent,  looking  up 
under  her  hand,  with  wondering  eyes,  and  ruddy  lips  apart. 
Poor  little  Harry  had  cried  a  great  deal  through  these  seven 
days,  for  he  could  not  understand  why  they  led  him  after  the 
coffin,  and  made  him  stand  beside  the  grave.  He  cried  then 
with  dread  and  terror,  but  since  then,  many  a  time  had  Harry 
asked  Mysie  what  had  become  of  papa. 

"  This  bairn  must  have  the  land,  free  as  when  we  came," 
said  Martha,  calmly ;  "  and  when  the  land  is  clear  and  re- 


HARRY     MUIR.  2*71 

deemed,  Agues,  he  must  have  fair  fame,  aud  family  credit,  and 
good  report,  to  add  to  his  inheritance.  I  am  left  in  trust  to 
clear  the  land  for  its  heir:  we  must  stay  in  AUenders." 

Agnes  did  not  speak  for  a  moment.  She  glanced  round 
the  room,  first  with  a  sick,  despairing  look,  as  if  in  fear  of 
all  its  associations,  then  with  tears  and  melting  tenderness. 
The  young  mother  put  one  feeble  arm  around  her  boy,  and 
leaned  her  head  upon  Martha's  shoulder,  "  I  am  very  glad," 
she  said,  "  very  glad — we  will  have  no  other  home." 

This  was  all  that  was  said  to  her  in  her  weakness  about  the 
will,  which  might  have  added  a  concealed  pang  to  Agnes's 
lawful  grief — for  now  she  too  was  jealous  of  Harry's  love,  and 
could  not  bear  to  think  that  any  one  had  shared  it  with  her,  in 
anything  near  the  same  degree.  Poor  Harry  !  it  was  true 
that  Martha  and  Uncle  Sandy  perceived  the  rash,  unconsider- 
ing  generosity,  which  set  natural  justice  aside,  to  make  this 
hasty  will ;  but  they  said  this  to  no  one,  ngr  to  each  other 
even  ;  and  in  the  hearts  of  all,  Harry's  sins  were  forgotten. 
He  was  already  a  saint  canonized  by  sorrow  and  love. 

'•  And  Katie  and  me  would  like  to  do  the  opening,"  said 
Lettie  in  a  half- whisper  ;  "  and  Martha,  Katie  wants  you  to 
tell  her  that,  she's  no  to  go  back  to  Miss  Jean." 

"  Oh,  will  you  let  me  stay  1 "  said  little  Katie,  pathetically, 
"  I'll  never  be  ony  trouble,  and  I  could  do  the  opening  fine." 

'•  The  bairn's  bread  will  never  be  missed,"  said  Uncle 
Sandy,  leaning  upon  the  back  of  the  sofa  where  Martha  sat. 
"  Ye  must  come  with  me,  bairns,  for  a  change,  and  stay  a 
while  in  Ayr  to  rest  your  minds,  poor  things  ! — and  Martha, 
my  woman,  you  have  mony  a  hard  thing  to  do — you'll  have  to 
see  Miss  Jean." 

"  Ay,  uncle,"  said  Martha,  '•  and  I  hear  there  is  somebody 
in  Edinburgh  besides ;  it's  only  about  money,  Agnes  :  nothing 
to  vex  you,  my  poor  bairn ;  and  you  must  trust  me  with  all. 
Will  you  go  with  my  uncle,  Agnes  ?  " 

"  If  you  will,  Martha,"  said  the  poor  little  invalid,  hplding 
by  her  indulgent  nurse. 

"  I  will  come  for  a  day,"  said  Martha  ;  "  but  now  I  must 
learn  about  business,"  she  added,  with  a  faltering  smile,  "  and 
take  order  for  many  things.  I  cannot  be  long  away  from  Al- 
lenders.  Rose  will  go  with  you  and  the  bairns.  You  have 
the  bairns,  Agnes,  God  be  thanked  !  to  comfort  you." 

And  Rose,  who  had  not  spoken,  again  held  up  the  baby, 
who  stretched  out  his  hand  to  pull  his  young  mother's  cap,  and 


2*72  HARRY    MUIR. 

crowed  and  laughed  in  her  face,  struggling  to  reach  her  arms 
with  baby  glee. 

Poor  little  unconscious  fatherless  boy !  Very  strange 
looked  this  impulse  of  infant  joy  among  all  these  sorrowful 
faces ;  and  with  a  burst,  which  none  could  restrain,  they  all 
bowed  down  their  heads  and  wept. 

All  of  them,  from  the  old  man  sobbing  aloud  behind  the 
little  couch,  and  Martha,  no  longer  able  to  preserve  her  self- 
control,  to  little  Harry,  struggling  stoutly  as  he  looks  upon 
them  all,  and  breaking  out  in  a  loud  shivering  sob  before  the 
tears  come ;  and  it  is  some  time  before  they  can  recover  them- 
selves— before  the  invalid  is  carried  to  her  bed,  and  watched 
till  she  falls  asleep,  and  they  all  disperse  to  do  what  they  can. 
and  conquer  themselves.  Martha  and  Uncle  Sandy  wait  in 
the  library  for  Charteris,  who  is  to  return  to-day,  bringing 
with  him  an  account  of  poor  Harry's  debts — and  their  consul- 
tations are  very  grave ;  and  you  can  fancy  that  on  Martha's 
brow,  care  takes  the  place  of  sorrow — for  no  one  knows  the 
deep  life  grief,  undisturbable  and  still,  which  lies  at  the  bot- 
tom of  her  heart.  Martha  treats  Agnes  as  if  she  were  the 
principal  sufferer  ;  comforts  Rose ;  soothes  and  consoles  the 
very  children,  but  does  not  say  what  she  feels — that  to  all  of 
them  lie  other  interests,  other  hopes,  and  gladnesses  within 
the  world  which  they  still  are  only  entering — whereas  herself 
sees  nothing  in  the  future  but  a  monument  of  good  fame,  hon- 
our, and  charity  to  be  raised  over  Harry's  grave.  This  is  the 
end  which,  proud  of  him,  and  jealous  for  him  still,  she  proposes 
to  herself,  caring  little  what  obstacles  lie  in  the  way  ;  and 
Uncle  Sandy  understands  the  wish,  but  doubts  in  his  heart,  in 
spite  of  all  his  faith  in  Martha,  and  cannot  see  how  she  is  to 
accomplish  it. 

Meanwhile  Agnes  sleeps — forgets  her  griefs,  and  strength- 
ens the  feeble  health  which  has  worn  to  so  delicate  a  thread ; 
and  Rose,  sitting  beside  her,  overcome  by  much  watching, 
constant  fatigue,  and  a  sorrow  no  less  present  and  engrossing 
than  the  young  widow's,  falls  into  quiet  slumber  too,  and  has 
a  faint  pensive  smile  under  the  tears,  which  still  fall  in  her 
dream ;  and  Violet  and  Katie  sit  on  the  carpet  at  the  draw- 
ing-room window,  with  their  heads  close  together,  learning 
other  stitches.  Sometimes,  indeed,  Lettie  pauses  to  cry  bit- 
terly, and  Katie  wipes  eyes  which  stream  in  sympathy ;  but 
they  are  both  much  absorbed  with  this  delicate  craft,  and  are 
calculating  how  many  "  holes  "  they  could  do  in  a  day,  and 


HARRY    MUIR.  273 

how  they  will  be  able  to  help  Martha ;  so   the  children  are 
comforted. 

And  deep  exhaustion  and  quietness  is  upon  Allenders. 
Idly  in  the  faint  sunshine,  Dragon  sits  on  his  stair-head,  and 
thinks  with  a  faint  wonder  of  his  own  recovery  and  Mr.  Harry's 
death,  and  cannot  apprehend  that  it  is  true,  but  listens  still 
for  his  quick  ringing  footstep,  and  calls  to  John  to  inquire 
why  Harry's  horse  is  left  continually  grazing  in  the  meadow 
park ;  and  John  in  the  kitchen  speculates  in  a  subdued  and 
sober  tone,  upon  the  changes  which  may  happen,  and  thinks 
he  will  speak  to  the  minister  about  a  new  place  in  case 
of  the  worst.  In  Maidlin  Cross  there  is  much  speculation 
too,  and  they  wonder  if  the  family  will  stay  at  Allenders,  and 
whether  they  will  sell  the  land :  but  nothing  is  known ;  and 
many  an  honest  sigh  for  poor  Allenders  heaves  from  the 
broad  breasts  of  his  labouring  men,  and  many  a  cottage  moth- 
er lifts  her  apron  mechanically  to  her  eye,  when  she  speaks  of 
the  "  weel- spoken,"  kindly  dead.  Poor  Harry !  his  whole 
world,  gently  and  tenderly,  let  the  veil  of  death  fall  over  his 
evil  deeds ;  remember  only  what  he  did  well ;  and  peace  is 
upon  his  grave. 


CHAPTER    XLVII. 


For  mine  inheritance  I  take  this  grave ; 

Myself  shall  be  its  constant  monument 

I  have  spent  all  my  tears.     In  otlier  fashion 

Than  with  faint  weepings  must  my  dead  be  mourned 

For  on  this  little  sod  I  have  beside 

A  battle-gi'ound.    Think  you  the  caitiff  shame 

Shall  share  this  consecrated  spot  with  me  ? 

Old  Plat. 

''  They  must  not  bid  me  ;  I  cannot  sell  the  land,"  said  Martha, 
firmly. 

Young  Mr.  Dunlop,  deputed  by  his  father  to  offer  any 
"  reasonable  "  assistance  in  arranging  her  affairs,  or  any  quan- 
tity of  advice  reasonable  or  otherwise,  sat  opposite  her  in  the 
library  :  Cuthbert  Charteris  waited  rather  impatiently.  They 
had  been  engaged  in  an  important  consultation  when  Mr.  Dun- 
lob  entered,  and  Cuthbert  was  turning  over  some  papers  rest- 
lessly, and  looking  round  now  and  then,  as  if  about  to  speak  : 
12* 


2*74  HARRY    MUIR. 

but  young  Mr.  Dunlop  still  roused  anything  but  peaceable 
feelings  in  Cutlibert's  mind,  and  he  remained  silent. 

"  Of  course,  Miss  Allenders,  my  father  would  never  dream 
of  forcing  his  advice  upon  you.  All  I  have  to  say  is,  that  in 
case  you  are  disposed  to  sell  the  land,  as  we  heard  you  were, 
Sir  John  would  be  glad  to  make  you  an  oflFer  for  part  of  it — 
that  is  all." 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  Sir  John  Dunlop,"  said  Martha, 
"  but  we  have  no  intention — I  cannot  see  we  have  any  right — 
to  dispose  of  any  part  of  Allenders.  Thanks,  many  thanks  ; 
but  we  must  try  to  increase,  not  to  alienate." 

After  some  time,  Mr.  Dunlop  went  away.  He  did  not  un- 
derstand the  quiet  gravity  with  which  he  was  received,  and 
carried  home  such  an  account  of  Martha's  callousness,  that 
his  sister  laughed  scornfully,  and  said  Miss  Allenders  had 
provided  for  herself,  and  would  soon  recover  of  her  grief. 
Good  Lady  Dunlop  only  shook  her  head,  and  secretly  resolved 
to  call  at  Allenders,  and  see  about  this  for  herself;  she  could 
not  believe  that  Harry's  trusted  sister  was  callous  to  his  loss, 
when  she  herself,  Lady  Dunlop,  who  never  had  known  death, 
except  twenty  years  ago,  when  she  lost  a  very  little  lisping 
child — a  meeting  with  the  adversary  which  she  never  could 
forget — always  lifted  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  gave 
a  sigh  to  poor  Allenders  when  his  name  was  mentioned.  She 
could  not  believe  in  Martha's  hardness  of  heart. 

"  It  must  be  attended  with  very  considerable  expense," 
said  Charteris.  "  You  must  either  part  with  Allenders,  or 
double  its  value — there  is  no  alternative.  And  I  do  not  see 
at  present  where  this  necessary  seed  of  capital  is  to  be  procur- 
ed. But  we  must  try.  You  will  come  to  Edinburgh  then,  on 
Monday,  and  see  the  creditor  ?  " 

"  That  is  four  thousand  pounds,  and  Miss  Jean  one,  and 
I  have  heard  there  were  other  bills,"  said  Martha.  "  Yes,  I 
will  go  on  Monday.  Can  we  pay  all  this,  do  you  think,  in  one 
lifetime  ?  And  then  there  is  the  present  money  to  be  thought 
of ;  another  thousand  they  say  would  do.  We  could  manage 
to  pay  the  interest  of  all  that." 

"  But  not  to  live  besides,"  said  Cuthbert,  hastily. 

Martha's  head  rose  with  a  slight  proud  motion.  "  I  have 
provided  for  that,"  she  said,  with  haughtiness  ;  but  immediate- 
ly softening,  added  so  frankly  that  Cuthbert  was  touched  al- 
most to  tears :  '•  I  mean  we  are  all  ready  to  work,  and  very 
willing.     We  are  now  as  we  were  before  we  came  to  Allenders  ; 


HARRY    MUIR.  2*75 

one  is  not — but  what  remains  to  do  is  for  him  ;  and  we,  all  of 
us,  sisters,  and  dearest  to  each  other,  are  as  we  were." 

As  she  concluded,  her  tears  fell  silently  upon  the  desk  be- 
fore her.  '•  God  is  visiting  my  heart  with  the  dews  of  youth," 
said  Martha,  looking  up  with  a  sad  smile  of  surprise.  "  I  can 
cry  now,  whenever  I  would,  like  a  bairn." 

And  Cuthbert,  who  was  a  man,  and  a  strong  one,  felt  his 
heart  swell ;  and  with  a  strong  impulse  of  help,  bethought  him- 
self what  he  could  do  for  those  sisters,  to  aid  them  in  their  work. 

"  The  houses  at  Maidlin  must  stand  for  a  time,"  said  Mar- 
tha. "  You  will  think  me  weak,  Mr.  Charteris,  but  I  cannot 
abandon  even  them  ;  and  we  must  try  to  find  a  place  for  John, 
and  to  sell  the  carriage  and  the  horses.  We  will  keep  the  gig 
which  the  old  Laird  of  Allenders  left,  and  Mysie — " 

Martha  stopped,  with  white  lips  and  a  strong  shiver.  She 
was  about  to  say,  that  Mysie,  like  many  other  country  girls, 
could  drive  ;  but  just  then  there  occurred  to  her  the  time  when 
Mysie  made  trial  of  her  skill,  through  the  darkness  of  that 
Hallowe'en  night,  and  for  a  moment  she  was  silent. 

•'  It  will  do  for  Agnes ;  all  the  rest  of  us  are  strong,"  re- 
sumed Martha,  with  a  voice  that  sounded  harshly.  "  I  think  I 
can  undertake  that  the  house  itself  will  cost  the  land  nothing; 
and  Armstrong  is  good  and  honest,  and  only  wants  some  one 
to  bid  him  do  what  he  knows  is  necessary  to  be  done  ;  I  can 
undertake  that,  too,  I  think.  He  was  here  yesterday.  See 
what  our  calculations  were,  Mr.  Charteris." 

Charteris  took  the  paper  and  read.  Though  not  in  the 
ordinary  business  form,  it  was  a  statement  of  expenses  for  a 
year,  including  the  interest  to  Miss  Jean,  and  Harry's  other 
creditor.  He  asked  to  keep  it,  and  she  permitted  him.  Cuth- 
bert began  to  be  very  sanguine ;  he  thought  he  saw  now 
where  to  find  the  money  to  complete  poor  Harry's  experiment 
with  the  land. 

Then  he  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

'•  Can  you  not  stay  to-night?  They  will  be  disappointed," 
said  Martha.  "  We  have  seen  very  little  of  you,  Mr.  Char- 
teris, since — since  we  came  here  ;  but  pray  stay  to-night,  and 
cheer  these  poor  girls.  I  am  perhaps  too  much  occupied  for 
them,  poor  things  !  and  they  are  going  with  my  uncle  to  Ayr. 
Stay  and  see  them  to-night,  or  you  will  disappoint  them." 

'•  Disappoint  them  ?  should  I  ?  "  said  Cuthbert,  smiling 
faintly.  "  I  stayed  away  because  I  thought  myself  very  mag- 
nanimous and  self-denying — perhaps  it  was  only  because  my 


276  HARRY    MUIR. 

pride  was  wounded ;  but  to  disappoint  them,  or  think  I  did, 
would  be  too  great  a  pleasure — I  must  see  them,  to  convince 
myself  that  I  have  not  so  much  cause  for  pride." 

And  Cuthbert,  in  a  little  flush  of  growing  hope  and  glad- 
ness, looked  up  into  Martha's  face — Martha's  face,  calm  and 
unchangeable,  full  of  the  great  still  sorrow,  for  which  half  an 
hour  ago  he  had  himself  wept,  struck  him  like  an  accusation. 
He  cast  down  his  eyes  in  silence,  and  stood  before  her  almost 
like  a  culprit ;  for  the  warm  hopes  and  joys  of  the  future 
looked  selfish  and  small  in  the  presence  of  this  absorbed  and 
quiet  grief. 

Just  then  Mysie  entered,  and  gave  Martha  a  letter.  As 
she  opened  it,  a  piece  of  paper  fell  to  the  ground.  Cuthbert 
lifted  it  up  ;  it  was  a  note  for  fifty  pounds. 

Martha  ran  over  the  note  quickly,  yet  with  perfectly  col- 
lected attention  ;  then,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  she  handed 
it  to  Cuthbert,  and  sat  down  at  her  desk  to  write.  The  letter 
was  from  Gilbert  Allenders. 

"  Madam, 

"  I  borrowed  at  various  times,  little  sums  from  your  bro- 
ther, the  late  Allenders — I  cannot  undertake  to  say  what  they 
came  to  exactly,  but  not  above  this  I  enclose.  I  am  leaving  Al- 
lender  Mains  next  week,  and  would  be  glad  to  call,  if  there  is 
no  objection  ;  and  would  be  glad  to  know  whether  I  have  your 
permission,  as  I  believe  I  had  the  permission  of  your  brother, 
to  pay  my  addresses  to  your  sister.  Miss  Rose.  This  is  not  a 
suitable  time  to  ask,  but  I  am  anxious  to  know,  and  intenjj  to 
settle  down  in  Stirling  ;  and  will  be  profited,  I  trust,  by  the 
late  solemn  warning,  which,  I  assure  you,  has  caused  me  the 
deepest  regret. 

"  With  much  sympathy,  and  compliments  to  all  the  family, 
"  I  remain,  dear  Madam,  yours  faithfully, 

"  Gilbert  Allenders." 

Cuthbert  unconsciously  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand. 
Inconsiderable  as  his  rival  was,  he  was  a  rival  still. 
Martha's  answer  was  very  brief. 

"  I  return  you,  with  thanks,  the  money  you  have  sent  me. 
We  who  remain  have  nothing  to  do  with  what  passed  between 
the  dead  and  you.  Let  this  be  past,  like  everything  else 
which  put  your  names  together.     We  are  little  disposed  to 


HARRY    MUIR. 


211 


receive  callers.     Without  any  discourtesy,  I  think  it  is  better 
that  you  should  not  come. 

"  Martha  Muir  Allenders." 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  signed  her  name  so ;  and 
Martha  placed  the  fifty-pound  note  within  her  letter,  when  she 
had  shown  it  to  Cuthbert,  who  looked  on  with  some  astonish- 
ment. Collected  and  self-possessed  as  she  was,  Martha  could 
not,  without  strong  emotion,  either  write  or  speak  poor  Harry's 
name,  and  her  whole  frame  quivered  with  nervous  excitement 
as  she  closed  her  letter.  Cuthbert  was  much  surprised ;  he 
thought  this  a  piece  of  quite  unnecessary  generosity. 

"  Is  it  foolish?  "  said  Martha,  answering  his  look.  "  Well, 
be  it  so  ;  but  no  one  shall  say  that  he  gave  this  to  a  careless 
companion,  and  that  it  was  exacted  back  again.  I  tell  you, 
the  meanest  gift  he  ever  gave,  were  it  for  his  own  destruction, 
is  sacred  to  me — never  to  be  reclaimed.  It  was  his  own.  I 
will  not  hear  a  word  of  blame." 

And  this  irritation  and  defiance  was  the  weakness  of  Mar- 
tha's grief. 

To  subdue  it,  she  rose  abruptly,  and  went  up-stairs  to  the 
drawing-room,  where  Agnes  now  sat  by  the  fire,  watching  the 
wintry  sunshine  steal  in  at  the  window.  Over  the  bright  hair, 
which  never  before  had  been  covered  with  a  matron's  hood, 
Agnes  wore  the  close,  sombre  cap  of  a  widow.  They  had 
tried  to  persuade  her  that  this  was  unnecessary ;  but  poor  lit- 
tle invalid,  heart-broken  Agnes  had  a  little  petulance  too,  and 
insisted.  Wrapped  in  a  heavy  black  shawl,  and  with  every- 
thing about  her  of  the  deepest  mourning,  her  face,  closely  sur- 
rounded by  those  folds  of  muslin,  looked  very  thin  and  pale ; 
but  the  faint  colour  of  reviving  health  began  to  rise  in  her 
cheek,  and  Agnes  sometimes,  in  the  impatience  of  early  sor- 
row, wept  that  she  could  not  die. 

Uncle  Sandy  sat  beside  her,  and  a  faint  attempt  at  conver- 
sation had  been  going  on ;  but  it  failed  often,  and  had  long 
breaks  of  listless  silence;  and  Cuthbert  fancied  the  patient, 
uncomplaining  sorrow  of  the  old  man — the  weakness  which 
seemed  to  have  fallen  over  him,  the  trembling  hand,  and 
husky  voice,  were  almost  the  most  moving  of  all. 

Rose  sat  by  the  table,  working ;  Lettie  and  Katie  Calder 
were  at  the  window  ;  but  you  scarcely  needed  to  look  at  their 
black  dresses,  to  know  that  those  strange  words,  "  It  is  all 
over,"  with  their  solemn  mystery  of  significance,  had  been 


HARRY    MUIR. 


lately  spoken  here.  All  was  over — everything — life,  death, 
anxiety,  excitement.  Their  heads  were  dizzy,  and  their  minds 
reeled  under  the  recent  blow  ;  yet  nothing  was  visible  but 
languor,  and  a  dim,  exhausted  calm. 

And  this  evening  passed,  as  every  other  evening  seemed  to 
pass,  like  some  strange,  vacant  space,  blank  and  still ;  yet 
Rose,  when  Cuthbert  sat  beside  her,  felt  a  grateful  ease  at  her 
heart.  It  seemed  as  if  some  one  had  lifted  from  her,  for  a 
moment,  her  individual  burden  ;  and  sad  though  the  family 
was,  and  languid  and  melancholy  the  afflicted  house,  Ciithbert 
remembered  this  evening  with  a  thrill  of  subdued  and  half- 
guilty  delight,  and  again  his  heart  longed,  and  his  arms 
expanded,  to  carry  away  into  the  sunshine  his  drooping 
Rose. 


CHAPTER   XLVIIL 


Albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow ; 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  a  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom. 
«  Merchant  of  Venice. 

"  Another  day — I  must  give  another  day,"  said  Cuthbert,  as 
he  hesitated  between  the  Edinburgh  and  the  Glasgow  coach. 
''  Nobody  but  I  can  do  this  business,  and  the  business  must 
be  done,  let  my  own  do  what  it  will — so  now  for  Grlasgow  and 
my  uncle." 

And  Cuthbert  climbed  to  the  top  of  the  coach,  and  dis- 
covered that  the  winds  between  Stirling  and  Glasgow  are  very 
keen  in  November.  He  buttoned  his  coat  tightly,  and  drew 
his  plaid  around  him,  with  care  and  repeated  exertions ;  but 
neither  coat  nor  plaid,  nor  both  together,  made  such  an  excel- 
lent defence  against  cold,  as  the  glow  at  his  heart. 

The  office  of  the  Messrs.  Buchanan  is  unchanged.  It  is 
true,  one  clerk  has  gone  to  Australia,  and  another  to  the 
West  Indies — that  one  is  in  business  for  himself,  and  two  are 
dead  ;  but  still  Mr.  Gilchrist's  massive  silver  snuff-box  glit- 
ters upon  his  desk,  and  still  he  contemplates  its  long  inscrip- 
tion, and  taps  it  lovingly,  as  he  takes  another  pinch.  Again, 
there  is  one  clerk  in  the  office  who  is  a  wit,  and  sings  a  good 


HARRY    MUIK.  279 

song,  and  is  "led  away,"  and  still  Dick  and  Alick,  and  John 
Buchanan,  are  cool  and  business-like  in  the  counting-house, 
and  enjoy  themselves  boisterously  out  of  it ;  though  there 
are  rumours  that  Dick  is  to  be  married,  and  "  settle  down." 

The  young  Buchanans  stare  at  Cuthbert's  mourning — the 
crape  on  his  hat,  and  his  grave  face — and  wonder  what  far- 
away cousin  must  be  dead,  whom  they  have  never  heard  of, 
and  feel  an  involuntary  guiltiness  when  they  look  upon  their 
own~ coloured  dress.  Very  far  off  and  very  poor  must  this 
cousin  have  been ;  they  are  all  immediately  prepared  to  de- 
fend themselves,  and  to  exclaim  that  they  got  no  inti- 
mation. 

"  What  is  this  for,  Cuthbert  ? "  said  Mr.  Buchanan 
hastily,  pointing  to  the  hat  in  Cuthbert's  hand. 

"  Do  you  remember  Harry  Muir,  uncle  1 "  said  Cuthbert. 
"  Poor  Harry  !  those  bits  of  crape  are  all  that  remain  to  him, 
of  this  world's  friendship  and  honour." 

Mr.  Buchanan  started,  and  was  greatly  shocked.  "  Poor 
fellow  !  I  thought  he  was  prospering  now,  and  doing  well — 
poor  fellow !  poor  fellow !  When  did  it  happen.  Cuth- 
bert ?  " 

"  I  heard  the  other  day  he  had  turned  out  very  wild," 
said  Alick  Buchanan. 

"  He  always  was ;  there  was  no  making  anything  of  him 
in  the  office,"  added  Dick,  hastily. 

Poor  Harry !  his  old  tempter  and  opponent  felt  a  little 
twinge  when  he  saw  Cuthbert's  mourning,  and  remembered 
him,  without  any  particular  satisfaction,  of  his  own  "joke,"  as 
he  called  it,  about  his  cousin  and  his  sister  Clemie. 

'•  Poor  Harry  !  some  of  the  best  men  in  the  county  fol- 
lowed him  to  the  grave,"  said  Cuthbert,  who  understood 
very  well  the  material  he  had  to  work  upon,  "  and  a  universal 
regret  went  with  him.  Uncle,  I  have  a  little  business  to  talk 
over  with  you,  if  you  will  permit  me.  Are  you  at  leisure 
now?" 

"  What's  going  to  happen,  Cuthbert?  "  said  Mr.  Buchanan, 
smiling :  "  a  bride  coming  home,  eh  ?  and  what  will  your 
mother  say  to  that?  But  come  along,  PU  go  down  with  you 
— you  shall  have  the  benefit  of  my  experience." 

Mr.  Buchanan's  plain,  unpretending,  one-horse  carriage 
waited  for  him  in  the  street  below.  The  young  men,  very 
independent  and  uncontrolled,  came  home  in  such  manner  as 
pleased   them ;    but    Cuthbert   had    to  wait   till  the   streets, 


280  HARRY    MUIR. 

shining  with  lights,  and  loud  with  many  voices,  had  faded  into 
darkness  behind  them,  and  they  were  steadily  proceeding  over 
a  quiet  country  road,  before  he  could  bring  his  business  before 
his  attentive  uncle. 

"  I  have  very  lately  returned  from  the  funeral  of  Harry 
Muir,"  said  Guthbert,  whose  face  had  been  gradually  becoming 
grave,  and  who  had  begun  to  grow  anxiously  impatient  of  their 
lighter  conversation ;  "  and  just  now,  uncle,  I  come  direct 
from  his  house,  where  his  sister  has  been  consulting  me  about 
her  future  arrangements.  One  cannot  but  be  interested  in 
this  family — they  clung  to  him  with  such  devotion ;  and  all 
they  care  for  now,  seems  to  be  to  maintain  his  good  name, 
and  clear  his  son's  inheritance.  Poor  Harry  !  few  men  are 
loved  so,  uncle." 

"  He  was  a  very  unsteady  lad,  Guthbert,"  said  the  mer- 
chant, shaking  his  head. 

"  It  might  be  so,"  said  Guthbert.  "  I  do  not  dispute  that ; 
but  now  he  is  dead  ;  and  I  have  set  my  heart  on  having  help 
to  Martha — I  mean  to  his  elder  sister,  who  has  charge  of  every- 
thing. She  needs  immediate  assistance,  uncle.  I  state  my 
business,  you  see,  very  briefly  ;  and  now  refuse  if  you  will.  I 
am  not  to  be  discouraged  by  any  number  of  Nays." 

"  Assistance  !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Buchanan,  hastily,  fumbling 
in  his  breast-pocket  for  his  purse,  "  do  you  mean  to  say 
they're  so  far  reduced  as  that?  No,  no — no  refusal,  Guth- 
bert ;  I  don't  often  shut  my  heart  when  there  is  real  charity 
in  the  case." 

"  I  know  you  don't,  uncle,  and  this  would  be  a  great 
charity,"  said  Guthbert  quick,  feeling  his  face  flush  in  the 
darkness ;  "  but  no  alms — no  alms.  I  will  tell  you  the  true 
state  of  the  case  now.  The  estate  has  had  very  little  cultiva- 
tion, and  produces  very  indifi'erent  crops.  Poor  Harry  during 
the  last  year  had  begun  to  improve  it,  and  expended  a  great 
deal  of  money  on  the  land ;  but  now  he  is  dead,  and  the  money 
spent,  and  a  heavy  debt  upon  the  estate.  They  could  pay  the 
interest  off"  their  income,  but  could  not  touch  the  principal. 
Now,  what  are  they  to  do,  uncle  ?  " 

"  Why,  Guthbert,  a  man  of  your  sense  !  only  one  thing  is 
possible — of  course,  sell  the  land." 

"  But  Martha  will  never  sell  the  land.  Martha  will  labour 
at  it  with  her  own  hands  before  she  alienates  the  child's  in- 
heritance," said  Guthbert,  getting  excited.  "  I  want  money 
for  her  to  carry  on  the  works  with  ;  and  this  money  she  will 


HARRY   MUIR.  281 

have,  one  way  or  the  other,  I  know.  My  own  scheme,  uncle," 
added  Cuthbert,  with  a  short  laugh,  under  which  a  great  deal 
of  anxiety  was  hidden,  '•  is  that  you  should  give  her  a  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  charge  no  interest  for  a  year  or  two,  till  she 
gets  everything  in  progress.  I  think  this  is  the  best  possible 
solution  of  the  problem,  kindly  and  Christian-like — " 

While  Cuthbert  spoke,  Mr.  Buchanan  employed  himself 
loliberately  in  buttoning  his  coat  over  the  comfortable  breast 
pocket,  where  his  purse  trembled  with  a  presentiment. 

"  Thank  you,  Cuthbert,"  said  the  merchant  drily,  "  I  have 
no  thousand  pounds  to  throw  away." 

There  was  a  pause ;  for  Cuthbert,  though  not  at  all  dis- 
couraged, needed  to  recover  himself  a  little  before  he  resumed 
the  attack. 

"  The  land  could  be  sold  to-morrow  for  ten  thousand 
pounds,  or  more  than  that — I  speak  hastily,"  said  Cuthbert. 
"  It  is  Wrdened  to  the  amount  of  five  thousand,  but  after  pay- 
ing that,  there  remains  abundance  to  satisfy  your  claim,  and 
I  can  answer  for  the  strictest  honour  in  your  debtor's  dealing. 
Poor  Harry  !  This  Martha — this  sister  of  his — clings  to  his 
every  project.  You  could  not  see  it  without  being  deeply 
moved,  uncle.  She  has  a  strong,  ambitious,  passionate  mind, 
and  his  was  a  weak  and  yielding  one ;  yet  she  clutches  at 
every  one  of  the  rapidly-changing  projects  which  he  took  up 
and  threw  down  as  toys  of  a  day,  and  confers  upon  them  a 
sort  of  everlastingness  through  the  might  of  will  and  resolution 
with  which  she  adopts  them.     Uncle,  you  must  help  Martha." 

Mr.  Buchanan  sat  by  him  in  silence,  and  listened,  hastily 
fastening  and  unfastening  the  one  particular  button  which  ad- 
mitted his  hand  to  his  warm  breast-pocket,  competent  and  com- 
fortable. The  good  man  was  naturally  benevolent  to  a  high 
degree — a  propensity  which  Cuthbert,  who  was  his  uncle's 
favourite  and  chosen  counsellor,  encouraged  by  all  means  in  his 
power  ;  but  the  rules  of  business  were  at  Mr.  Buchanan's  fin- 
ger ends,  and  their  restraint  came  upon  him  like  a  natural 
impulse,  so  that  he  actually  did  not  know,  good  simple  man, 
that  his  natural  will  was  always  towards  the  charity,  and  that 
this  restraint  was  something  artificial  which  interposed  between 
him  and  his  natural  will. 

''  Perfectly  unbusiness-like,  Cuthbert,"  said  the  merchant. 
"  I  wonder  greatly  why  you  should  speak  of  such  a  thing  to 
me.  A  man  accustomed  to  regular  business  transactions  has 
no  tolerance  for  such  affairs  as  this — they  are  out  of  his  way. 


282  HARRY    MUIR. 

Your  landed  gentry  or  rich  people,  who  don't  know  anything 
about  where  their  money  comes  from,  or  how  it  is  made — 
they  are  the  people  to  carry  such  a  story  to." 

Very  true  in  the  abstract,  good  Mr.  Buchanan — neverthe- 
less, your  nephew  Cuthbert  knows,  as  well  as  if  you  had  told 
him,  that  your  purse  begins  to  burn  your  breast-pocket,  and 
leaps  and  struggles  there,  desiring  to  get  the  worst  over,  and 
be  peacefully  at  rest  again.  Cuthbert  knows  it ;  and  Cuth- 
bert takes  advantage  of  his  knowledge. 

'•  Martha  is  trustee,  and  has  charge  of  all,"  said  Cuthbert ; 
"  and  there  is  little  Mrs.  AUenders  herself,  and  her  two  babies. 
Little  Harry,  the  heir,  is  a  fine,  bold,  intelligent  boy,  young  as 
he  is,  and  will  want  no  care  they  can  give  him — that  is  very  sure. 
Then  there  are  two  other  children  quite  dependent  on  Martha 
— her  own  little  sister,  and  another,  a  distant  relation,  poor 
and  fatherless,  whom  they  have  kept  with  them  ever  since  they 
went  to  AUenders.  Now  there  can  be  no  doubt  it  would  be 
easier  for  them  to  go  away  to  some  little,  quiet,  country  house, 
and  live  on  what  they  can  earn  themselves,  and  on  the  residue 
of  what  the  land  will  bring  ;  but  Martha  would  break  her 
heart.  It  is  a  generous  devotion,  uncle.  She  proposes  to 
take  the  management  of  the  farm  herself,  and  has  actually 
begun  to  make  herself  mistress  of  this  knowledge,  so  strange 
for  a  woman  ;  while  the  exertions  of  the  others,  and  of  her 
own  spare  hours,  are  to  provide  the  household  expenses,  she 
calculates.  All  this  is  for  Harry,  and  Harry's  heir  ;  and  it  is 
no  burst  of  enthusiasm,  but  a  steady,  quiet,  undemonstrative 
determination.     Come,  uncle,  you  will  help  Martha  ?  " 

"  Is  that  the  old  sister — the  passionate  one  1 "  asked  Mr. 
Buchanan. 

"  The  passionate  one — yes." 

"  And  there  was  surely  one  more  that  you  have  not  men- 
tioned ;  by  the  bye,  Cuthbert,"  said  Mr.  Buchanan,  hastily, 
"  the  boys  used  to  say  you  went  there  often.  There's  nothing 
between  you  and  any  of  them,  I  hope  ?  " 

"  No,  uncle  !  " — the  humility  of  the  answer  struck  Mr. 
Buchanan  strangely.  He  almost  thought  for  a  moment  that 
he  had  the  little  boy  beside  him,  who  used  to  spend  holiday 
weeks  in  Glasgow,  when  Dick  was  a  baby  with  streaming 
skirts,  and  '•  there  was  no  word''  of  any  of  the  others.  It 
made  the  merchant's  heart  tender,  even  when  he  turned  to 
look  upon  the  strong  man  by  his  side. 

But  Cuthbert,  for  his  part,  thought  himself  guilty  of  dis- 


HARRY    MUIR.  283 

ingenuousness,  and  by  and  bye,  he  added,  "  Don't  let  me  de- 
ceive you,  uncle.  When  I  say  no,  I  don't  mean  to  imply  that 
there  will  never  be,  nor  that  even  if  there  never  is  anything 
between  us,  it  will  be  any  fault  of  mine." 

But  Mr.  Buchanan  only  shook  his  head — how  it  came 
about,  he  could  not  tell,  but  the  good  man's  eyelids  were 
moistened,  and  there  came  back  to  him  momentary  glimpses 
of  many  an  early  scene;  he  was  pleased,  too,  however  impru- 
dent Cuthbert's  intentions  might  be,  with  the  confidence  he 
gave  him — for  that  his  nephew  was  more  than  his  equal,  the 
good  merchant  very  well  knew. 

So  Mr.  Buchanan  shook  his  head,  and  satisfied  his  con- 
science with  the  mute  protest ;  "  he  could  not  find  it  in  his 
heart,"  as  he  said  to  himself  afterwards  in  self-justification,  to 
condemn  his  nephew's  true  love. 

"  But  this  is  not  to  the  purpose,"  continued  Cuthbert. 
''  A  thousand  pounds,  uncle,  with  the  estate  of  Allenders,  and 
myself  for  your  securities.  I  am  getting  on  myself — I  shall 
soon  have  a  tolerable  business,  I  assure  you,  though  this  ab- 
sence may  put  some  of  it  in  jeopardy.  Grive  me  my  boon  now, 
and  let  me  hurry  back  to  my  office — a  thousand  pounds — and 
of  course  you  will  not  accept  any  interest  for  a  few  years." 

Mr.  Buchanan  sighed.  "  It  is  a  very  unbusiness-like  trans- 
action, Cuthbert,"  said  the  merchant. 

"  But  not  the  first  unbusiness-like  transaction  you  have 
carried  to  a  good  end,"  said  Cuthbert,  warmly.  "  Take  com- 
fort, uncle  ;  the  Christian  charity  and  the  natural  love,  will 
hold  out  longer  than  business.  And  now  you  have  given  me 
your  promise,  I  must  say  three  words  to  my  aunt  and  Clemie, 
and  ask  you  to  let  Robert  drive  me  back  again.  I  must  be 
home  to-morrow  morning  at  my  work." 

And  travelling  by  night,  in  the  disconsolate  stage-coach 
was  nothing  like  so  satisfactory  as  an  express-train — yet  Cuth- 
bert went  home,  very  comfortably ;  and  very  comfortably  did 
the  slumber  of  an  unencumbered  mind,  and  a  charitable  heart, 
fall  over  Mr.  Buchanan,  though  still  he  shook  his  head  at  his 
own  weakness,  and  was  slightly  ashamed  to  make  a  memoran- 
dum of  so  unbusiness-like  a  concern. 


284  HARRY    MUIR 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

"  A  banki-upt,  a  prodigal  who  dare  scarce  show  his  head  on  the  Eialto ;  a  beggar,  that 
was  used  to  come  so  smug  on  the  mart.  Let  him  look  to  his  bond.  He  was  wont  to 
call  me  usurer :  let  him  look  to  his  bond.  He  was  wont  to  lend  money  for  a  Christian 
charity  ;  let  him  look  to  his  bond."  Merchant  of  Venice. 

A  FEW  days  after  this,  Martha  came  to  Edinburgh  according 
to  her  appointment,  to  meet  Harry's  principal  creditor,  accom- 
panied by  Uncle  Sandy,  who,  "  with  all  the  bairns,"  as  he  said, 
was  to  return  home  to  Ayr  whenever  he  was  freed  from  his  at- 
tendance on  Martha. 

The  meeting  was  arranged  to  take  place  in  Lindsay's  office, 
and  Martha  carried  with  her  the  half-year's  interest  payable 
to  this  creditor.  It  was  the  last  of  his  own  four  thousand 
pounds. 

The  man  was  a  retired  shop-keeper,  eloquent  on  "  the  value 
of  money,"  and  thinking  the  five  or  six  thousands  which  were 
the  much-boasted  result  of  his  life,  a  great  fortune,  justly  en- 
titling its  possessor  to  "  a  proper  pride."  Like  most  people, 
whose  increase  has  been  an  accumulation  of  morsels,  Mr.  Ma- 
calister  was  terribly  afraid  of  risk,  and  shrank  from  specula- 
tion with  the  most  orthodox  horror.  Persuaded  at  first  to  in- 
vest his  money  in  Harry's  mortgage,  because  land  was  the  most 
secure  of  banks,  his  ears  had  been  keenly  alive,  ever  since,  to 
every  morsel  of  news  he  could  glean  about  Harry ;  and  when 
Mr.  Macalister  heard  he  was  luilcl^  he  trembled  for  his  four 
thousand  pounds.  Then  came  Harry's  death,  and  hearing 
that  the  property  was  left  only  in  the  hands  of  women,  Mr. 
Macalister  had  a  vague  notion  that  he  had  power  to  sell  the 
lands  of  AUenders,  and  pay  himself,  very  probably  making  a 
profit  of  the  transaction ;  or  that  he  might,  if  he  would,  take 
.possession,  and  become  Laird  of  AUenders  in  his  own  person ; 
but  he  had  never  mentioned  this  grand  imagination  to  any  one, 
though  it  invested  him  with  a  visionary  importance,  which  sur- 
prised his  very  wife.  Yet  Macalister  was  by  no  means  a 
dishonest  man,  nor  one  who  would  deliberately  set  about 
benefiting  himself  by  cheating  his  neighbours — by  no  means ; 
but  his  exaggerated  idea  of  the  money  which  he  had  labori- 
ously earned,  made  him  believe  that  all  this  was  in  his  power. 


HARRY    MUIR.  285 

So  he  came  to  Lindsay's  office  very  spruce  and  shining, 
with  an  elaborate  shirt-frill,  and  a  new  cane,  determined  to  de- 
mand instant  re-payment  of  the  money,  or  failing  that,  to  in- 
timate his  intention  of  entering  upon  possession  of  AUenders. 

Lindsay,  somewhat  puzzled,  was  endeavouring  to  under- 
stand the  solemn  hints,  and  important  allusions  of  Macalister, 
when  Martha  and  her  uncle  entered  his  office.  The  creditor 
was  somewhat  taken  by  surprise ;  and  when  he  saw  the  defer- 
ence with  which  the  lawyer  received  this  grave-looking  woman 
in  her  deep  mourning,  Macalister  faltered ;  for  he  had  never 
thought  of  "  the  other  party  " — never,  except  as  natural  oppo- 
nents and  adversaries  of  whom  he,  in  this  connexion  of  debtor 
and  creditor,  had  greatly  the  advantage. 

"  I  have  been  thinking — I'll  likely  want  my  money.  Miss  Al- 
lenders,"  said  Macalister  after  a  few  general  words  had  passed, 
followed  by  an  embarrassed  silence. 

"  Mr.  Lindsay  will  pay  you  the  interest  which  is  due,"  said 
Martha  ;  "  and  it  would  be  a  convenience  to  us  if  you  did  not 
— at  least,  immediately — claim  your  money.  The  works  for 
which  it  was  borrowed  have  not  had  time  yet  to  be  profitable ; 
but  a  few  years  more,  I  trust — " 

'•  Ay,  Miss  AUenders  ;  but  it's  not  so  easy  for  me  to  wait 
a  few  years  more,"  said  Macalister,  briskly,  restored  to  his 
natural  self-importance  by  Martha's  request ;  "  for  ye  see,  I 
can  show  you  plainly — " 

But  what  Mr.  Macalister  could  have  shown  plainly,  re- 
mained for  ever  unknown  to  Martha ;  for  at  that  moment  a 
great  commotion  arose  in  the  outer  office,  and  the  door  of  this 
room  thrown  violently  open,  disclosed  the  ghost-like  face  in- 
flamed with  fury,  of  Miss  Jean  Calder,  who,  holding  Lindsay's 
clerk  at  arm's  length,  with  her  long  fingers  clutched  upon  his 
shoulder,  had  thrown  the  door  open  with  her  disengaged  hand, 
and  was  about  to  enter  the  room. 

Involuntarily,  Alexander  Muir  drew  back  his  chair,  and 
Martha  started.  Like  a  visitant  from  the  dead,  the  old 
woman,  with  a  great  stride,  entered  among  them.  Her  tall, 
angular  frame  tottered,  and  her  head  shook,  half  with  rage 
and  excitement,  half  with  the  natural  palsied  motion  of  her  ex- 
treme age.  She  was  dressed  in  a  large  woollen  shawl,  once 
bright  tartan,  now  as  dim  in  its  complexion  as  it  was  thin  in 
its  texture,  and  a  large  bonnet,  standing  out  stiffly  like  a  fan 
round  her  ghost  face,  which  was  encircled  under  it  by  a  stiff 
ruff  of  yellow  lace.     Miss  Jean  made  one  great  step  forward, 


286  HARRY    MUIR. 

and  seizing  upon  Alexander  Muir,  shook  him  till  herself  was 
so  thoroughly  shaken  that  she  scarcely  could  stand. 

"  Did  I  no  tell  ye — did  I  no  warn  ye.  Sandy  Muir,  that  I 
would  pit  my  fit  yet  on  his  turf,  that  thought  I  was  auld,  and 
wished  me  dead,  and  had  his  covetous  e'e  on  my  siller?  I'm 
saying  did  I  no  tell  ye?  And  I'll  tell  ye  what,  strange 
folk,"  said  Miss  Jean,  turning  round  with  a  glittering  smile 
of  malice,  "  I'm  glad  the  reprobate's  dead — that  am  I  ! — for 
now  he'll  keep  nae  honest  body  out  of  their  ain." 

Martha  started  from  her  seat  with  a  violent  passion — 
mingled  of  burning  grief  and  fury — in  her  face.  Her  hand 
clenched,  her  form  dilated — you  would  have  thought  her  about 
to  strike  down  at  her  feet  the  incarnate  demon,  whose  laugh 
of  shrill  malicious  triumph  rang  over  Harry's  grave  ;  and,  for 
an  instant,  a  perfect  tempest — an  overwhelming  storm,  to 
whose  rage  everything  would  have  been  possible — possessed 
Martha,  like  another  kindred  demon.  Then  she  suddenly  sat 
down,  and  clasping  her  hands  together,  leaned  them  on  her 
knee,  drawing  up  her  person,  and  stretching  out  her  arms  to 
their  full  length  as  if  the  pain  were  some  relief  to  her ;  for 
years  of  endurance  had  not  quenched  the  passionate,  fiery  na- 
ture out  of  Martha's  soul. 

"  He's  in  the  hands  of  God — he's  entered  the  life  where 
no  man  makes  shipwreck ! "  said  Uncle  Sandy,  rising  up. 
"  Bairns,  have  pity  upon  this  miserable  woman,  who  kens  not 
the  day  that  her  soul  may  be  required  of  her.  Curse  her  not, 
Martha;  curse  her  not.  And  woman,  I  say,  blessed  are  the 
dead — blessed  are  the  young  graves — blessed  is  the  very  pes- 
tilence and  sword,  that  preserves  innocent  bairns  from  living 
to  be  evened  with  the  like  of  you  !" 

And,  with  a  visible  tremble  of  indignation  shaking  his 
whole  frame,  the  old  man  sat  down,  unwitting  that  the  curse 
he  had  forbidden  Martha  to  speak,  was  implied  in  his  own 
denunciation. 

"  Let  them  laugh  that  win,"  said  Miss  Jean ;  and  the  play's 
no  played  out  yet,  Sandy  Muir.  Where's  my  guid  siller  ? — 
and  where's  a'  the  books  and  papers  I  furnished  to  yon  lawyer 
chield,  to  make  out  your  prodigal's  claim  ?  Weel,  he's  dead — 
he  has  nae  claim  noo — and  I  crave  to  ken  wha's  the  heir?  " 

"  His  son,"  said  Martha,  distinctly. 

'■  His  son  ! — wha's  his  son  ?  He  was  naething  but  a  bit 
callant  himself.  Ay,  Sandy,  my  man,  ye  thought  little  of  my 
skill  in  folk's  lives  ;  ye  thoct  Jean  Calder  would  have  thrissels 


HARRY    MUIR.  287 

growing  ower  her  ain  head,  or  ever  there  came  a  grey  hair  in 
Harry  Muir's  !  What  are  ye  saying  till't  noo,  Sandy  *?  No 
uncle  to  a  laird  noo — uncle  to  naething,  but  six  feet  of  grass 
and  a  headstane !  I  saw  him  ance  wi'  his  hair  fleeing  in 
the  wind,  and  his  laugh  that  ye  could  have  heard  it  half  a  mile 
off,  and  me  hirpling  on  my  staff,  wi'  never  ane  looking  over 
their  shouther  at  me.  I  kent  then  in  my  heart,  that  auld  as 
I  was  I  would  see  him  dead  ! — and  it's  true  this  day.  Lad, 
may  I  sit  down  ?     I've  come  for  my  siller." 

Lindsay  put  a  chair  towards  her  silently,  and  she  half  fell 
into  it,  half  voluntarily  seated  herself.  Poor  respectable 
Macalister  stood  aghast,  afraid  of  her  wrinkled  face,  and  the 
wild  gleam  in  her  frosty  eyes.  Martha,  pressing  her  foot  upon 
the  ground,  as  if  she  crushed  something  under  it,  and  clench- 
ing her  hands  together,  till  the  pain  of  them  mingled  with  the 
burning  in  her  heart,  bent  down  her  head  and  kept  silence  ; 
while  Uncle  Sandy,  elevating  himself  with  a  simple  indignant 
dignity,  seemed  about  to  speak  several  times,  but  for  a  sob 
which  choked  him,  and  which  he  would  not  have  Miss  Jean  hear. 

'•  I've  come  for  my  siller  !  "  repeated  Miss  Jean,  stamping 
her  foot  on  the  ground,  to  give  her  words  emphasis.  "  What 
do  ye  ca'  this  woman  ?  It's  Martha,  is't  1  Weel,  there's  little 
about  her  for  onybody  to  envie,  if  it  binna  her  bombazine. 
Ye  would  gie  a  hantle  for  the  yard  o'  that  now  1  I  wonder  ye 
had  the  heart — a'  off  the  prodigal  callant's  estate,  and  cheating 
folk  that  he's  awn  lawful  siller  to.  And  it's  no  as  if  ye 
were  a  young  lassie  either,  or  ane  to  be  set  off  wi'  the  like  o' 
thae  vanities.  I  wonder  a  woman  come  to  your  years  doesna 
think  shame  1  " 

'•  Listen,  Auntie  Jean,"  said  Martha,  suddenly  raising  her- 
self and  speaking  quick,  as  if  to  keep  the  resolution  she  had 
brought  to  this  pitch  :  "  There  is  nothing  to  be  envied  in  me. 
I  have  neither  youth,  nor  good  looks,  nor  happiness — and 
never  had  !  You  may  deal  with  me  on  equal  terms  :  I  am 
able  to  give  you  as  much  as  you  have  hitherto  got  for  this 
money  of  yours.  I  want  it,  and  you  want  the  income  from  it 
— give  it  to  me  if  you  choose  :  if  you  do  not  choose,  withdraw 
it  at  once  without  another  word.  This  is  all  I  have  to  say  to 
you.  I  will  be  glad  if  you  take  it  away,  and  make  me  free  of 
the  connexion  of  your  name  ;  but  I  will  change  no  arrange- 
ment willingly.  Now,  take  your  choice  ;  and  you,  Sir,  do  the 
same.     This  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

And  Martha  turning  her  eyes  from  them,  looked  to  Uncle 


288  HARRY    MUIR. 

Sandy,  who  kept  his  fixed  upon  Miss  Jean,  and  was  still 
painfull^i  composing  himself  to  answer  her. 

"  No."  said  the  old  woman  with  a  malignant,  feeble  laugh, 
"  there's  naething  to  envie  in  you.  I  was  a  different  looking 
woman  to  you  in  my  young  days,  Martha  Muir ;  but  there  was 
never  a  well-far'd  bit  about  you  a'  your  life,  and  a  temper  like 
the  auld  enemy.  I  wish  you  nae  ill.  I  wadna  gang  out  of 
my  gate  to  do  either  gude  or  ill  to  the  like  of  you.  for  I  dinnu 
think  ye're  worth  my  pains  ;  but  mony's  the  bonnie  lad,  and 
mony's  the  bonnie  lass  I've  seen  hame  to  the  mools,  that  took 
their  divert  off  me — and  mony  a  ane  I'll  see  yet,  for  a'  that 
sneck-drawing  hypocrite  says." 

"  Ay,"  said  Martha,  "  the  comely,  and  the  blythe,  and  the 
hopeful  die  away.  The  like  of  us  that  it  would  be  a  charity 
to  take  out  of  this  world,  live  all  our  days,  and  come  to  grey 
hairs.  Ay,  auntie,  the  bairns  are  dying  night  and  morning — 
the  like  of  us  lives  on  !  " 

"  But  bless  the  bairns,  Martha — bless  them  whom  the 
Master  was  at  pains  to  bless,"  cried  Uncle  Sandy,  his  eyes 
shining  through  tears.  "  I  am  old,  too,  and  have  seen  sorrow  ; 
but  Grod  preserve  and  bless  the  gladness  of  the  bairns !  " 

"  Ye're  but  a  bairn  yourself,  Sandy  Muir,"  said  Miss  Jean, 
casting  upon  him  a  half-angry,  half-imbecile  glance  out  of  her 
wandering  eyes ;  "  and  I've  gien  Mr.  Macer  a  missive  about 
your  twa  hunder  pounds.  What  does  the  like  o'  you  want  wi' 
siller?  and  your  grand  house  and  garden,  my  bonnie  man,  and 
a'  the  young,  light  headed  gilpies  ye  train  up  to  vanity?  We'll 
just  see  how  muckle  the  wives  and  weans  will  mind  about  you 
in  Ayr,  when  ye're  gaun  frae  door  to  door  wi'  a  mealpock  and 
a  staff;  but  ye  need  never  seek  frae  me." 

The  old  man  rose  with  some  dignity :  '•'  Martha,  my  woman, 
this  does  not  become  you  and  me,"  said  Uncle  Sandy,  "  we 
that  have  grief  and  the  hand  of  Grod  upon  us,  are  no  more  to 
suffer  railing  than  to  return  it.  These  folk  have  heard  what 
ye  had  to  say,  and  you're  no  a  person  of  two  minds,  or  many 
words.  Let  us  go  back  to  our  sorrowful  house,  and  our  be- 
reaved bairns,  with  neither  malice  nor  curse  in  our  hearts, 
leaving  the  ill-will  with  them  that  it  comes  from.  Ye  can 
hear  their  answer,  Martha,  from  the  gentleman.  Ye  have 
said  what  ye  had  to  say." 

Almost  mechanically  Martha  rose  to  obey  him,  and  took 
the  old  man's  arm.  But  after  she  had  left  her  seat  and  taken 
a  few  steps  towards  the  door,  whither  Uncle  Sandy  hastened 


HARRY    MU.1K.  289 

her  with  tremulous  speed,  she  turned  round — perhaps  only  to 
speak  to  Lindsay  who  followed  them,  perhaps  to  look  again  at 
the  miserable  old  woman,  who  still  was  of  her  own  blood,  and 
had  scarcely  a  nearer  relative  than  herself  in  the  whole  world. 

"  I've  come  from  Ayr  on  the  tap  o'  the  coach,  my  lane," 
said  Miss  Jean,  suddenly  relapsing,  as  she  did  sometimes,  into 
the  natural  passive  state  of  age,  which  forgot  in  an  instant 
the  emotions  which  had  animated  the  poor  exhausted  skeleton 
frame.  "  If  it  hadua  been  a  decent  lad  that  paid  the  odds  of 
the  charge,  and  put  me  in  the  inside  atween  this  and  Falkirk, 
I'm  sure  I  wad  have  been  perished  wi'  the  cauld,  and  never  ane 
of  you  offering  a  puir  auld  woman  a  morsel  to  keep  her  heart. 
I  heard  from  Mr.  Macer,  in  Stirling,  there  was  to  be  a  meet- 
ing here  the  day,  and  I  thought  my  canniest  plan  was  to  take 
my  fit  in  hand,  and  trust  nane  of  thae  sliddry  writers.  But, 
man,  micht  ye  no  be  mending  the  fire  the  time  ye're  glowering 
at  me  ?  the  tane's  as  easy  as  the  thither,  and  there's  as  mony 
coals  yonder  standing  in  the  scoop  as  would  fill  my  bunker, 
and  baud  me  gaun  half  the  year.  Coals  maun  be  cheap  here 
away,  and  I  wadua  scruple  to  make  a  bleeze,  if  you're  sure  the 
lum's  clean ;  but  I  aye  keep  a  frugal  fire  at  hame :  I'm  a  very 
careful  woman.  Sandy,  do  ye  ken  ony  place  hereawa  where  an 
auld  body  could  get  a  sma'  cheap  meal  ?  I'm  very  moderate 
in  my  eating  mysel,  but  travel  appetizes  even  a  frail  person 
like  me ;  and  what  was  yon  ye  was  saying  about  the  siller  ?  " 

Lindsay  repeated  what  Martha  had  said  in  a  few  words. 
Mr.  Lindsay  did  not  by  any  means  admire  this  occupation  of 
his  office.  But  Miss  Jean's  eyes  wandered  to  Martha,  who 
still  stood  silently  looking  on,  and  holding  her  uncle's  arm. 

'■  She's  no  muckle  to  look  at,"  said  the  old  woman,  bend- 
ing her  shrivelled  face  forward,  "  but  Iv'e  heard  the  voice  she 
speaks  wi'  afore,  and  it's  no  like  a  fremd  voice.  Canna  ye 
tell  me  what  ye  said  about  the  siller  yoursel,  instead  of  stand- 
ing there  like  a  stane  figure  ?  and  sit  down  and  be  quiet,  hon- 
est man,  now  ye  have  gotten  on  the  coals." 

This  was  addressed  to  Macalister,  who  very  humbly,  and 
with  a  look  of  fright  at  Lindsay,  had  replenished  the  fire  at 
Miss  Jean's  command.  He  now  obeyed  her  again,  with  in- 
stant submission,  feeling  himself  a  very  small  person,  and  al- 
together forgetful  of  his  imaginary  grandeur. 

Martha  repeated  her  former  words,  where  she  stood,  hold- 
ing the  arm  of  Uncle  Sandy — and  Uncle  Sandy,  still  percep- 
tibly trembling,  averted  his  head  with  a  simple  pride  and  dig- 
13 


290  HARRY    MUIR. 

nity,  and  held  Martha's  arm  closely  in  his  own,  as  if  with  an 
impulse  of  protection. 

"  As  lang  as  ye  gie  me  fifty  pounds  by  the  year,  ye  can 
keep  the  siller  till  I  hear  of  mair  for  it,"  said  Miss  Jean,  at 
last  ;  "  but  where  ane  favours  ye,  and  does  ye  charity,  ye 
might  show  a  decent  respect.  Woman,  there's  the  like  o'  you 
that  never  was  weel-favoured  nor  yet  young,  nor  had  as  guid 
a  wit  in  your  haill  bulk  as  I  hae  in  my  little  finger  ;  but  ane 
bows  to  ye,  and  anither  gies  ye  a  baud  o'  their  arm,  and  a' 
body  civil,  as  if  ye  were  something — when  ye're  naething  but 
a  single  woman,  without  a  penny  in  your  purse,  and  needing 
to  work  for  your  bread  day  by  day.  But  never  ane,  if  it 
binna  whiles  a  stranger,  like  him  that  put  me  in  the  inside  of 
the  coach,  says  a  guid-e'en  or  a  guid-day  to  me ;  and  when 
I'm  useless  wi'  my  journey,  it's  no  apples  and  flagons  to  keep 
my  hea,rt,  but  fechting  and  contentions  that  I  never  could 
bide — for  a'  body  turns  on  me." 

And  the  poor  old  woman  mumbled  and  sobbed,  and  put 
up  a  great  dingy  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

Uncle  Sandy's  ofi'ence  was  gone — he  could  not  see  a  sem- 
blance of  distress  without  an  effort  to  relieve  it. 

"  I'll  take  ye  in  a  coach  to  a  decent  place,  Miss  Jean," 
said  Alexander  Muir,  "  and  bid  them  take  care  of  ye,  and  see 
ye  safe  hame,  and  be  at  all  the  charges,  if  you'll  just  think 
upon  your  evil  ways,  and  take  tent  to  your  ain  life,  and  harm 
the  young  and  the  heedless  nae  mair." 

"  He  thinks  I'm  a  witch,  the  auld  haverel,"  said  Miss 
Jean,  looking  up  with  a  harsh  laugh  ;  "  but  never  you  heed, 
Sandy,  we'll  gree  ;  and  ye  can  tell  the  folk  to  take  me  an  in- 
side place  in  the  coach,  and  I'll  take  care  mysel  to  see  they 
settle  for  a'  thing,  and  I'll  gang  away  the  morn ;  so  ye  can  gie 
them  the  siller — or  I'll  take  charge  of  it  and  pay  them  mysel 
— its  a'  the  same  to  me." 


HARRY    MUIR.  291 


CHAPTER   L. 

All  men  make  fkults,  and  even  I  in  this ; 
Authorizing  thy  trespass  with  compare, 
Myself  corrupting,  salving  thy  amiss. 
Excusing  thy  sins  more  than  thy  sins  are. 

SUAKSPEAKE. 

And  Martha  bad  to  meet  lesser  creditors  to  wliom  Harry 
owed  smaller  amounts  for  trifles  of  his  own  wardrobe,  of  fur- 
niture, and  other  inconsiderable  things.  But  the  sum  they 
came  to  altogether  was  far  from  inconsiderable.  Uncle  Sandy, 
who  steadily  attended  and  supported  her,  was  grieved  some- 
times by  the  bitter  and  harsh  passion  with  which  she  received 
the  faintest  word  which  implied  blame  of  Harry.  In  every 
other  particular  Martha  appeared  a  chastened  and  sober 
woman  ;  in  this  the  fire  and  pride  of  her  nature  blazed  with 
an  unchecked  fierceness  which  grieved  the  gentler  spirit. 
Within  himself  there  was  something  also  which  sprang  up  with 
instinctive  haste  to  defend  the  memory  of  Harry  ;  but  Martha's 
nervous  impatience  of  the  most  remote  implied  blame,  and  the 
headlong  fiery  passion  with  which  she  threw  herself  upon  any 
one  who  attempted  this,  made  the  old  man  uneasy.  And 
people  who  encountered  Martha's  anger  did  not  know  its 
strange  inconsistency,  nor  could  have  believed  how  well  she 
was  aware  of  Harry's  faults,  or  how  in  her  heart  she  con- 
demned them ;  but  Martha  had  devoted  her  life  to  restore  to 
Harry's  memory  the  honour  he  had  lost  in  his  person,  and 
whoso  struck  at  him,  struck  at  her  very  life. 

They  were  walking  home  on  their  return — for  the  carriage 
was  already  sold — and  John,  who  had  not  yet  got  another 
place,  carried  their  little  travelling-bags  behind  them.  It  was 
a  bright  November  day,  not  very  cold,  but  clear  and  beautiful, 
and  the  sunshine  lay  calmly  like  a  glory  on  the  head  of  De- 
meyet,  crowning  him  against  his  will,  though  even  he  bore  the 
honour  more  meekly  than  in  the  dazzling  days  of  sum- 
mer. The  air  was  so  clear,  that  you  could  see  the  white 
►  houses  clustering  at  his  feet,  and  hear  the  voices  of  distant 
farm-yards  on  every  side,  miles  away,  making  a  continual  sound 
over  the  country,  which  seemed  to  lie  in  a  silent  trance  of 
listening  ;  and  from  this  little  height  which  the  road  descends. 


292  HARRY    MUIR. 

you  can  see  the  blue  smoke  of  Allenders  curling  over  the 
bare  trees,  and  make  out  that  the  sunshine  glances  upon  some 
bright  childish  heads  under  the  stripped  walnut  on  the  lawn. 
Uncle  Sandy,  looking  towards  it,  prays  gentle  prayers  in  his 
heart — prays  to  the  God  of  the  fatherless,  the  widow  the  dis- 
tressed— to  Him  who  blessed  the  children  in  His  arms,  and 
wept  with  the  sisters  of  the  dead  ;  and  has  his  good  heart  light- 
ened and  comforted,  knowing  who  it  is  to  whom  he  has  in  faith 
committed  the  charge  of  these  helpless  ones  ;  and  the  old 
man  has  a  smile  upon  his  face,  and  many  a  word  of  tender 
kindness  in  his  heart,  to  comfort  the  "  bairns  "  at  home — for 
they  are  all  bairns  to  him. 

But  other  thoughts  burn  at  the  heart  of  Martha,  as  she 
walks  onward  by  his  side.  Unawares  and  unconsciously  her 
soul  shudders  at  the  sunshine — hates  with  fierce  impatience 
the  voices  and  cheerful  hum  of  ordinary  life,  which  grow 
audible  as  they  approach  Maidlin,  and  shrinks  from  returning 
home — home,  where  that  one  vacant  place  and  absent  voice, 
makes  her  heart  desolate  for  ever.  Through  her  bitter  re- 
pinings.  Miss  Jean's  exultation  passes  with  a  ghastly  terror, 
and  Martha  shivers  to  think  that  this  unholy  age  may  come 
upon  her,  and  has  her  heart  full  of  questionings  almost  im- 
pious. That  this  old  woman,  envious,  degraded  and  miserable, 
should  be  spared  in  the  earth  to  see  many  a  hopeful  head  laid 
low  ;  that  poor  old  Dragon,  basking  in  the  sunshine,  should 
live  on  from  day  to  day,  and  see  the  children  die ;  that  she 
herself  should  remain,  and  Harry  be  taken  away.  Martha 
said,  "Why?  why?"  and  groaned  within  herself,  and  was 
burdened,  hating  the  very  light,  and  shrinking  with  burning 
impatience  from  the  respectful  looks  and  half-spoken  sym- 
pathies of  these  cottar  women  at  Maidlin  Cross.  She  could 
not  accept  sympathy  ;  she  turned  away  with  loathing  from  all 
except  those  who  immediately  shared  her  sorrow ;  and  even 
them  she  bore  with  sometimes  painfully — for  who  could  un- 
derstand her  grief  ? 

A  blasting  fiery  unblessed  grief  burning  her  heart  like  a 
tempest — and  a  sullen  gloom  came  over  Martha's  face  as  she 
averted  her  head,  and  walked  on  steadily,  closing  her  ears  to 
the  pleasant  natural  sounds  which  seemed  to  crowd  upon  her 
with  so  much  greater  distinctness  than  usual,  that  they  chafed, 
her  disturbed  mind  into  very  fury.  "  The  Spirit  of  the  Lord 
left  Saul,  and  an  evil  spirit  from  the  Lord  troubled  him."  It 
was  so  with  Martha  now. 


HARRY    MUIR.  293 

Little  Mary  Paxton  has  been  learning  to-day  to  make  a 
curtsey — for  she  is  to  go  to  school  for  the  first  time  to-mor- 
row ;  and  her  big  sister,  Mysie,  says  the  young  ladies  curtsey 
when  they  enter  the  school-room  at  Blaelodge.  Mary  has  blue 
eyes,  little  ruddy  lips,  always  parted  by  two  small  white  teeth 
which  appear  between  them  :  and  cheeks,  which  the  sun  has 
ripened,  according  to  his  pleasure,  all  the  summer  through. 
In  her  little  woollen  frock  and  clean  blue  pinafore,  Mary  has 
been  practising  her  new  acquirement  at  the  Cross.  She  is 
only  four  years  old,  and  has  a  license  which  the  elder  children 
have  not :  so  little  Mary  rises  up  from  the  step  of  the  Cross 
on  which  she  has  just  seated  herself  for  a  rest,  and  coming 
forward  with  her  small  steps,  pauses  suddenly  on  the  road  be- 
fore Martha,  folds  her  little  bare  hands  on  her  breast,  and 
looking  up  with  the  sweet  frank  childish  face,  and  the  two 
small  teeth  fully  revealed  by  her  smile  of  innocent  satisfac- 
tion, makes  her  little  curtsey  to  the  lady,  and  stands  still  to 
be  approved  with  the  confidence  of  her  guileless  years. 

Upon  Martha's  oppressed  heart  this  falls  like  a  blow  under 
which  she  staggers,  scarcely  knowing  for  the  moment  from 
whence  the  shock  comes.  Suddenly  standing  still,  and  grasp- 
ing at  the  old  man's  arm  to  support  herself,  she  looks  at  the 
child — the  child  who  lifts  up  her  sweet  little  simple  face,  with 
its  smiling  parted  lips  and  sunny  eyes,  and  look  of  perfect  trust 
and  innocence.  Little  Mary  wits  not  that  there  are  in  the 
world  such  despairs  and  bitternesses  as  blind  the  very  heart 
in  Martha's  breast  ;  and  Martha's  breast  heaves  with  a  great 
sob  as  this  sudden  stroke  falls  upon  her.  The  old  woman's 
haggard  face,  with  its  ghostly  triumph,  disappears  from  her 
mind — herself,  heavy  with  the  grief,  which  is  greater  than  every 
other,  passes  away  from  her  relieved  sight.  Standing  still  in 
perfect  silence,  a  sudden  burst  of  natural  emotion  which  sweeps 
away  all  evil  things  before  it,  falls  upon  her  as  from  the  skies 
— a  strong  revulsion,  like  the  witched  mariner  • 

*'  0  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 
Their  beauty  might  declare. 
A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware : 
Sure  ray  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 
And  I  blessed  them  unaware." 

The  tears  came  in  floods  irrestrainable  to  Martha's  eyes, 
and  with  another  long  sob,  she  snatched  up  the  child   in  her 


294  HARRY    MUIR. 

arms,  kissed  its  little  innocent,  surprised  face,  and  covering 
her  own  with  her  veil,  hurried  away.  But  she  had  blessed 
them  unaware — blessed  all  God's  creatures  out  of  a  full  heart, 
acquiescing  in  that  mysterious  love  which  apportions  all  things  ; 
and  the  natural  sounds  and  sights  were  gall  to  her  no  longer, 
and  the  burden  fell  from  her  neck.  All  the  way  home  she  hid 
her  tears,  and  restrained  the  sound  of  her  weeping  so  far  as 
possible ;  but  Uncle  Sandy  saw  and  wondered,  that  Martha 
was  indeed  weeping  like  a  child. 

Two  days  after,  Uncle  Sandy  with  his  family  went  to  Ayr. 
They  were  to  stay  a  month,  Martha  said,  and  Agnes  and  Rose 
acquiesced  very  quietly.  What  did  it  matter  where  these 
pensive,  sorrowful  days  were  spent  1  But  Agnes  went  away, 
occupied  with  many  little  necessary  cares  for  her  own  delicate 
health,  and  for  the  children,  who  now  had  no  maid  to  attend 
them  ;  and  Bose,  charged  with  the  care  of  all  the  little  party, 
had  countless  small  solicitudes  and  responsibilities  to  interest 
her,  and  could  even  sometimes  escape  with  a  sigh  into  her  own 
dream-country,  and  be  charmed  into  a  grateful  repose  ;  while 
Lettie  and  Katie  Calder,  could  scarcely  repress  a  certain 
childish  excitement  in  prospect  of  the  journey,  and  were  in 
their  full  enthusiasm  about  new  stitches,  and  the  work  they 
were  to  do  in  Ayr  to  help  Martha.  All  had  some  such  new- 
awakened  interest  to  relieve  the  strain  of  constant  grief,  as 
human  creatures  mercifully  find  when  God  lays  upon  them 
the  heaviest  of  His  chastisements.  But  they  went  away,  and 
left  Martha  with  her  one  maid  Mysie,  and  the  poor  old  Dragon, 
in  a  house  peopled  with  continual  reminders  of  Harry^ — 
alone. 

And  as  she  lay  upon  her  bed  awake,  through  these  gloomy, 
solitary  nights,  and  dreamed  of  footsteps  on  the  stair,  and 
mysterious  sighings  through  her  silent  room,  the  strong  heart 
of  Martha  trembled.  What  if  the  spirit  hovering  by  her, 
struggled  in  those  inarticulate  breathings  to  communicate 
something  to  the  dull  human  sense,  whicii  cannot  hear  the 
delicate  voices  out  of  the  unseen  country  ?  What  if  Harry — 
the  true  Harry — not  him  they  laid  under  the  sod  in  the  church- 
yard of  Maidlin — was  straining  his  grander  spiritual  faculties 
by  her  side,  to  attain  to  the  old  mortal  voice  which  only  she 
could  hear,  and  tell  her  what  mercy  God  had  communicated 
to  his  soul,  and  where  its  dwelling  was  ?  And  Martha  held 
her  breath  and  listened,  and  with  a  throb  of  deeper  grief  was 
sensible  of  this  thrill  of  fear  which  reminded  her  how  great  a 


HARRY    MUIR.  295 

gulf  and  separation  lay  now  between  her  and  the  dead — a  gulf 
before  which  the  human  spirit  fainted,  refusing  to  front  the 
forbidden  mystery  which  yet  its  restless,  curious  thoughts 
assail  on  every  side.  But  in  the  broad  daylight  many  a  time 
there  seemed  to  Martha  an  eye  upon  her  which  benumbed  her 
like  a  spell — a  conscious  presence  going  with  her  as  she  went 
and  came,  sitting  silent  by  her  side,  fixing  upon  her  constantly 
this  fascinating  eye. 

Meanwhile  everything  extraneous  was  cleared  away  from 
their  now  simple  and  plain  establishment.  John  was  gone — 
and  Mr.  Buchanan's  money. lodged  in  the  Stirling  Bank  re- 
stored credit  and  respectability  to  the  steady  and  continuous 
care  which  began  to  rule  over  Harry's  fields.  At  Martha's 
years  there  is  difficulty  in  learning  an  altogether  new  occupa- 
tion, and  this  was  of  itself  distasteful  and  outre  to  a  woman  ; 
but  sometimes,  though  every  one  respected  her  presence,  it 
happened  that  she  heard  indifferent  people  speak  of  "  poor 
Allenders,"  of  the  "warning"  of  his  death  as  Grilbert  called  it, 
or  of  the  shipwreck  of  his  life.  And  this,  which  brought  the 
burning  blood  to  Martha's  face,  inspired  her  with  power  to 
overcome  every  obstacle.  Harry — who  in  her  heart  needed 
no  name — he  had  been  too  long  the  acknowledged  centre  there 
— it  was  to  Martha  the  bitterest  pain  to  speak  of  him  to  the 
uninterested  and  careless,  who,  presuming  on  her  mention  of 
him,  plied  her  with  allusions  to  her  brother,  till  her  impatient 
sorrow  could  have  turned  upon  them,  and  struck  them  down 
even  with  a  blow.  But  even  this  Martha  schooled  herself  to 
bear — schooled  herself  to  tell  the  men  with  whom  her  neces- 
sary business  brought  her  into  contact,  that  this  was  Harry's 
will  and  that  his  intention  ;  that  he  had  proposed  this  work, 
and  that  charity,  which  she  was  bound  to  carry  out,  and  would. 
Gradually  these  people  came  to  look  upon  him  with  a  visionary 
reverence — this  spirit  of  the  dead  whose  intentions  lived  in  a 
will  so  strong  and  unvarying ;  and  his  own  weakness  passed 
away,  and  was  forgotten,  in  the  strength  which  placed  itself, 
like  a  monument,  upon  his  grave. 


296  HARRY    MUIR. 


CHAPTER   LI. 

Here  is  no  change  but  such  as  comes  in  me. 

OiJ3  Play. 

Maggie  McGtJLlivray  clips  no  longer  in  the  wintry  sunshine 
at  her  mother's  door.  Poor  little  foolish  girl,  she  has  married 
a  cotton-spinner,  and  at  eighteen  has  a  baby,  and  many  cares 
upon  the  head  which  used  to  stoop  under  the  light  as  she  sang 
the  "  Lea  Rig,"  and  clipped  at  her  web.  And  Bessie  McG-illi- 
vray,  who  has  succeeded  Maggie,  has  no  such  heart  for  either 
the  work  or  the  song,  but  drawls  out  the  one  dismally,  and 
idles  about  the  other,  and  thinks  it  would  be  a  great  relief  to 
marry  a  cotton-spinner  too,  and  have  no  more  webs  to  clip — a 
fate  which  she  will  accomplish  one  of  these  days.  And  Bessie 
is  "  cauldrife,"  as  her  mother  says,  and  prefers  sitting  at  the 
fireside  to-day,  though  the  sunshine  conies  down  mellow  and 
warm  through  the  November  fog  ;  so  that  the  scene  from  Mrs. 
Rodger's  parlour  window  loses  one  of  its  most  pleasant  features, 
when  there  is  nothing  to  look  to  opposite,  but  the  idle  light 
lying  on  the  stones  at  Peter  McGillivray's  door. 

Mrs.  McGarvie's  Tiger,  still  tawny  and  truculent,  winks  in 
the  sun,  as  he  sits  upon  the  pavement,  confronting  it  with  his 
fierce  red  eyes.  But  Mrs.  McG-arvie's  red-haired  Rob  has 
gone  to  Port  Philip  to  make  his  fortune  in  the  bush,  and 
pretty  little  Helen  has  undergone  the  universal  destiny,  and 
is  married.  There  is  change  everywhere  without — new  names 
on  the  Port  Dundas  Road — new  houses  springing  up  about  its 
adjacent  streets  ;  but  Mrs.  Rodger's  parlour,  where  Agnes 
and  Rose,  and  Uncle  Sandy,  with  the  children,  are  now  as- 
sembled, though  a  long  succession  of  tenants  have  passed 
through  it  since  they  left  it,  remains  still  the  same. 

And  still  the  same  is  gaunt  Mrs.  Rodger  in  her  widow's 
cap — genteel  and  grim,  terrible  to  tax-gatherers,  and  innocent 
men  of  gas  and  water ;  and  Miss  Rodger,  care-worn,  faded 
and  proud  ;  and  the  prim  Miss  Jeanie.  But  "  Johnnie,"  in 
his  chimney  corner,  has  begun  to  be  moved  to  better  things 
than  this  perpetual  idleness  ;  and  though  he  has  not  reached 
so  far  as  to  overcome  himself,  and  his  false  and  unwholesome 
shame,  he   is  approaching  to  this  better  state  ;  and  a  great 


HARRY.  MUIR.  297 

clumsy  good-natured  lodger  pays  persevering  court  to  Miss 
Aggie.  The  hoyden  is  decidedly  reluctant,  and  resists  and 
rejects  him  stoutly — but  it  is  no  use,  for  this  is  her  fate. 

And  Agues  with  the  bright  hair  all  hidden  under  her 
widow's  cap,  sits  down  by  the  window  with  her  baby  in  her 
lap,  and  bending  over  it,  attending  to  its  wants,  lets  her  tears 
fall  silently  upon  its  frock,  and  on  the  little  round  arms  which 
stretch  up  to  her,  till  a  violent  paroxysm  comes  upon  her,  and 
she  has  to  leave  the  infant  to  Rose,  and  steal  away  into  the 
inner  room  "  to  compose  herself,"  as  she  says — in  reality  to 
sob  and  weep  her  strength  away,  and  be  exhausted  into  com- 
posure. Poor  little  unconscious  child,  upon  whom  this  heavy 
baptism  falls  !  for  now,  one  by  one,  over  the  little  hands  with 
which  he  strokes  her  cheek,  steal  the  tears  of  Kose.  It 
was  unwise  of  them  to  come  here  ;  the  place  is  too  full  of 
memories. 

By  a  way  which  Violet  has  often  clambered  up  in  the 
summer  nights  long  ago,  it  is  possible  to  reach  the  high  field 
which,  closely  bordering  upon  Mrs.  Rodger's  house,  is  level 
with  the  bed-room  windows.  Here  in  the  dusk,  when  the 
night  cold  has  scarcely  set  in,  and  one  star  trembles  in  the 
misty  sky,  strays  Lottie's  friend,  Mr.  John,  pondering  over 
many  things ;  and  here  comes  little  thoughtful  Lettie,  -to 
search  the  old  corners,  where  she  used  to  find  them,  for  one 
remaining  gowan.  and  keep  it  as  a  memorial  of  this  place 
which  is  like  home.  From  the  edge  of  the  field  you  can  look 
sheer  down  upon  the  road  with  its  din  and  constant  popula- 
tion, and  upon  the  lights  gleaming  scantily  in  those  little 
nooks  of  streets  about  the  Cowcaddens,  where  Violet  knows 
every  shop.  From  the  other  end  of  the  field,  close  upon  the 
dangerous  brink  where  it  makes  abrupt  and  precipitous 
descent  into  a  great  quarry,  comes  the  sound  of  those  distinct 
measured  strokes,  broken  by  continual  exclamations  and  laugh- 
ter, with  which  two  stout  servants  beat  a  carpet.  The  dust  is 
out  of  it  long  ago,  but  still  their  rods  resound  in  quick  time 
on  either  side,  and  their  voices  chime  in  unison  ;  and  now 
they  trail  it  over  the  dark  fragrant  grass,  and  stealing  to  the 
edge  call  to  the  passengers  below,  who  start  and  look  around 
in  amazement,  and  would  not  discover  whence  the  voice  comes, 
but  for  the  following  laugh,  which  reveals  the  secret.  And 
by  and  by  a  "  lad  "  or  two,  and  some  passing  mill  girls,  scram- 
ble up  the  broken  ascent  which  communicates  with  the  road  ; 
and  often  will  the  mistress  look  from  her  door  in  dismay,  and 
13* 


298  HARRY    MUIR. 

the  master  call  from  the  window,  before  Janet  and  Betsy  lift 
their  carpet  from  the  grass,  and  recollect  that  it  is  "  a'  the 
hours  of  the  nicht,"  and  that  there  are  a  hundred  things  to  do 
when  they  return. 

But  Lettie  puts  her  hand  softly  into  Mr.  John's  hand,  and 
begins  to  answer,  with  many  tears,  his  questions  about  Harry; 
and  tells  him  how  Martha  is  to  do  everything  that  Harry 
wanted  to  be  done,  and  that  they  are  all  to  work  at  the 
"  opening,"  and  Katie  Calder  is  to  stay  at  AUenders  ;  but 
neither  of  them  are  to  go  to  school  at  Blaelodge  any  more. 
Violet  does  not  quite  know  what  makes  her  so  confidential, 
and  has  a  compunction  even  while  she  speaks,  and  thinks 
Martha  would  not  be  pleased — but  yet  she  speaks  on. 

"  And  we're  all  to  be  busy  and  work  at  the  opening  ;  for 
Martha  says  we  need  not  think  shame,"  said  Lettie  ;  "  and 
Katie  and  me  will  be  able  to  help  to  keep  the  house,  Mr. 
John  ;  and  Rose  says  it's  better  to  work  than  be  idle,  and  it 
keeps  away  ill  thoughts  ;  but  I  like  best  to  think  it's  lane, 
without  working,  or  to  read  books — only  I've  read  all  the 
books  in  AUenders,  and  I'm  no  to  be  idle  any  more." 

"  You  see  I'm  aye  idle  yet,  Lettie,"  said  John. 

"  Oh  yes ;  but  then  you  never  need — and  you've  aye 
been,"  said  Lettie,  hastily ;  for  to  Lettie  Mr.  John  was  an 
institution,  and  his  idleness  was  part  of  himself — a  thing  quite 
beyond  discussion,  and  unchangeable. 

But  a  burning  flush  came  over  John  Rodger's  face,  in  the 
darkness,  and  Lettie  saw  instinctively  that  his  feelings  were 
wounded.  This  brought  upon  her  a  strange  embarrassment ; 
and  while  anxiously  casting  about  for  something  to  say,  which 
should  change  this  painful  subject,  she  fell  into  a  shy  silence — 
which  was  only  broken  at  last  by  Mr.  John  himself 

"  No,  Lettie,  I  have  not  been  always  idle,  and  I  have 
need,"  said  the  roused  man ;  '"  and  when  I  hear  a  little  thing 
like  you  speaking  about  work,  and  helping  to  keep  a  house,  it 
makes  me  think  shame  of  myself,  Lettie.  You  and  your 
sisters,  that  might  be  so  different,  working  for  your  bread — 
and  me  this  way  !  " 

"  Ay,  but  Miss  Jeanie  and  Miss  Aggie  work  more  than 
we  do,"  said  Lettie,  simply. 

For  always  it  is  the  angel  from  heaven,  miraculous  and 
strange,  and  not  the  daily  revelations  of  Moses  and  the  pro- 
phets, which  these  bewitched  natures  think  will  rouse  them. 
Miss  Jeanie  and  Miss  Aggie,  with  all  their  little  vanities,  had 


HARRY    MUIR.  299 

hearts  sincere  on  this  point,  and  full  of  gracious,  unconscious 
humility.  They  never  reminded  the  idler  that  they  worked 
for  him ;  never  thought  that  they  were  pinched  and  restrain- 
ed, in  the  ostentations  they  held  so  dear,  because  "  Johnnie" 
hung  a  burden  on  their  hands ;  never  speculated,  indeed,  on 
the  question  at  all,  nor  dreamed  of  giving  reasons  to  them- 
selves for  the  spontaneous  natural  impulse,  which  made  this 
self-sacrifice  unawares.  And  he  himself  never  realized  it 
either  ;  but  he  was  struck  with  the  devotion  of  Martha  and 
her  household.  This,  unusual,  strange — a  thing  he  did  not 
see  every  day — moved  him  ;  the  other  had  scarcely  occurred 
to  him  when  Lettie  spoke. 

They  left  Glasgow  the  next  day  ;  for  neither  Agnes  nor 
Rose  could  bear  to  remain  in  the  house,  so  familiar  to  them 
of  old  ;  and  they  did  not  return  to  Mrs.  Rodger's  on  their  way 
home  ;  but  when  Miss  Aggie  married  the  lumbering  lodger, 
and  came  to  be  settled  on  the  other  side  of  the  Firth,  at 
Alloa,  and  received  her  sister  as  a  visitor,  Miss  Jeanie  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  Allenders,  and  told  them,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  that  Johnnie,  now  a  clerk  with  a  Port  Dundas  merchant, 
had  said  to  her,  that  she  should  never  want  while  he  had  any- 
thing, and  had  given  her  money  to  buy  the  expensive  unsuit- 
able upper  garment  she  wore.  Poor  Miss  Jeanie,  with  her 
vanities  and  simplicities,  never  discovered  that  he  owed  her 
gratitude ;  but  for  these  words  of  kindness  she  was  tearfully 
grateful  to  him. 

The  month  at  Ayr  passed  very  quietly.  In  this  winter 
weather  Uncle  Sandy's  little  company  of  workers  could  no 
longer  visit  the  leafless  garden ;  and  though  there  was  some- 
times a  great  fire  made  in  the  kitchen,  and  a  special  lamp 
lighted  for  them,  yet  their  own  fireside,  the  old  man  thought, 
was  the  most  suitable  place  for  them  now.  So  the  family  were 
almost  perfectly  alone ;  left  to  compose  themselves  into  those 
quiet  days  which  were  but  the  beginning  of  a  subdued  and 
chastened  life.  And  Uncle  Sandy  did  for  them  now  what 
Martha  was  wont  to  do  through  the  terrible  time  which  preced- 
ed Harry's  death.  He  read  to  them  sometimes ; — sometimes 
he  was  himself  their  book  and  reader  ;  and  from  his  long  ex- 
perience, the  young  hearts,  fainting  under  this  great  sorrow, 
learned  how  many  trials  life  can  live  through,  and  were  un- 
willingly persuaded  that  the  present  affliction  would  not  kill 
them,  as  they  sometimes  hoped  it  might:  but  must  lighten, 
perhaps  must  pass  away.     But  they  clung  the  closer  to  their 


300  HARRY    MUIR. 

sorrow,  and  defied  the  very  chance  of  returning  gladness  ;  and 
Agnes  cut  away  the  curls  of  her  bright  hair,  and  said  she 
would  wear  this  widow's  cap  her  whole  life  through  ;  and  Rose 
grew  sick  at  sounds  of  laughter,  and  believed  she  would  never 
smile  again. 


CHAPTER  LIT. 

A  gloomy  piece  this  morning  with  it  brings ; 
The  sun  for  sorrow  will  not  show  his  head. 

EoMEo  AND  Juliet. 

It  was  December,  cold  and  dreary,  when  the  family  returned 
to  AUenders.  Their  very  return  was  a  renewal  of  the  first 
sorrow  to  both  themselves  and  Martha.  They  came,  and 
Harry  was  not  there  to  welcome  them  ;  they  had  never  before 
felt  so  bitterly  his  absent  place  ]  they  came,  but  Harry  came 
not  with  them — and  Martha's  very  voice  of  welcome  was 
choked  with  her  anguish  for  the  dead. 

There  had  been  much  discussion  with  Uncle  Sandy,  whom 
they  were  all  anxious  to  induce  to  return  to  AUenders,  and 
remain  with  them  there.  The  old  man  did  not  consent.  Re- 
luctant as  he  was  to  be  separated  from  them  now,  his  own 
old  house  and  neighbourhood  were  parts  of  his  gentle  natilre. 
He  could  not  leave  them — could  not  relinquish  his  universal 
charge  of  the  "  bairns,"  nor  deprive  his  young  embroiderers  of 
the  air  and  sunshine,  to  which  no  one  else  might  think  of  ad- 
mitting them.  So  Uncle  Sandy  brought  his  charge  to  Glas- 
gow, and  bade  them  an  affectionate  farewell,  promising  a  yearly 
visit  to  AUenders  ;  but  he  could  not  give  up  his  little  soli- 
tary home. 

They  settled  immediately  into  the  monotonous  and  still 
order  of  their  future  life.  Martha's  room,  where  there  were 
few  things  to  suggest  painful  remembrances,  they  made  a 
little  work-room  ;  and  here  Agnes  and  Rose  sat  by  the  win  • 
dow  at  their  work,  and  Lettie  and  her  little  companion  learn- 
ed their  lessons,  and  laboured  with  varying  industry — now  en- 
thusiastic— now  slack  and  languid,  at  the  '•  opening,"  in  which 
they  were  soon  skilled.  And  Martha,  returning  wearied 
from  business  out  of  doors,  or  in  the  library,  came  up  here 
to  take   off  her  outer  wrappings,  and  begin  the  other  labour 


HARRY    MUIR.  301 

which  called  for  her.  And  Lettie  on  the  carpet,  and  Katie 
on  her  little  stool,  kept  up  a  running  conversation,  which 
sometimes  gave  a  passing  moment  of  amusement  to  the  sadder 
elder  hearts  ;  and  little  Harry  played  joyously,  beguiling  his  sad 
young  mother  into  momentary  smiles  ;  and  the  baby  began  to 
totter  on  his  little  feet,  and  make  daring  journeys  from  the 
arms  of  Martha  into  his  mother's  ;  and  gradually  there  grew 
to  be  a  certain  pensive  pleasure  in  their  evening  walk,  and 
they  roused  themselves  to  open  the  window,  when  the  little 
Leith  steamer  shot  past  under  the  trees  ;  and  every  day  filled 
itself  with  its  own  world  of  duty,  and  passed  on — slowly  it  is 
true — but  less  drearily  than  at  the  first. 

No  one  grudged  now,  nor  mixed  ill-feeling  in  the  emulation 
with  which  neighbouring  agriculturists  watched  the  fields  of 
Allenders.  Something  of  fear  and  solemn  awe  startled  the 
very  labourers  in  these  fields  when  Martha  passed  them,  assi- 
duous and  diligent  in  all  the  work  she  set  herself  to  do.  They 
were  not  afraid  of  her — she  did  not  impress  them  with  more 
than  the  respect  which  they  gave  willingly  as  her  right  ;  but 
there  was  something  solemn  in  a  representative  of  the  dead — 
a  person  living,  as  it  seemed,  but  to  carry  out  the  thoughts  and 
wishes  of  another  who  had  passed  away.  The  stir  and  thrill 
of  renewed  and  increased  industry  came  again  upon  Maidlin 
Cross.  It  was  true  they  had  no  model  cottages  yet,  but  the 
land  lay  marked  out  on  the  other  side  of  the  cross,  where 
Harry's  new  houses  were  to  be :  and  Armstrong  thought  Miss 
Allenders  had  answered  him  almost  fiercely,  when  he  proposed 
to  plough  this  land,  and  enclose  it  in  a  neighbouring  field.  No, 
— it  was  Harry's  will  those  houses  should  be  built,  and  built 
they  must  be,  when  justice  and  right  permitted  ;  and  it  soon 
came  to  be  known  in  Maidlin,  where  Harry  in  his  careless 
good-humour  had  promised  anything  without  bestowing  it,  that 
it  needed  but  a  hint  of  this  to  Martha  to  secure  the  favour. 
And  the  work  went  on  steadily  and  prosperously,  and  with  a 
wise  boldness  Martha  drew  upon  Mr.  Buchanan's  thousand 
pounds.  Armstrong,  no  longer  driven  to  the  sad  alternative 
of  doing  nothing,  or  acting  upon  his  own  responsibility,  be- 
came emboldened,  and  w^s  no  longer  afraid  to  be  now  and 
then  responsible ;  and  Allender  Mains  became  a  great  farm- 
steading,  and  began  to  send  off  droves  to  Stirling  market,  and 
Falkirk  tryste,  and  was  managed  as  the  cautious  Armstrong 
never  could  have  managed  it,  had  all  this  gainful  risk  and  ex- 
penditure been  incurred  for  himself. 


302  HARRY    MUIR. 

And  on  the  Sabbath  days  when  they  leave  the  church — 
Agnes  in  her  widow's  weeds  leaning  on  Martha's  arm,  and 
Rose  leading  the  children — they  turn  aside  to  a  little  space 
railed  off  from  the  wall,  where  moulders  the  mossed  gravestone 
of  the  old  Laird  of  Allenders,  and  where  the  gowans  and  for- 
get-me-nots grow  sweetly  under  the  spring  sunshine  upon  Har- 
ry's breast.  His  name  is  on  a  tablet  of  white  marble  on  the 
wall — his  name  and  age — nothing  more.  They  go  there  si- 
lently— almost  as  it  seems  involuntarily — towards  their  grave, 
and  stand  in  silence  by  the  railing,  visiting  the  dead,  but  say- 
ing nothing  to  each  other ;  and  after  a  little  while,  as  silently 
as  they  came,  the  family  go  away.  Nor  do  they  ever  allude 
to  this  visit,  though  the  custom  is  never  broken  through — it  is 
something  sacred,  a  family  solemnity,  a  thing  to  be  done  in 
silence. 

And  the  ladies  of  Nettlehaugh  and  Foggo  do  not  disdain 
now  to  call  on  Mrs.  and  Miss  Allenders,  nor  even  Miss  Dun- 
lop,  though  she  stands  upon  her  dignity,  and  has  heard  a  secret 
whisper  that  these  hands  she  condescends  to  shake,  work  at 
her  collars  and  handkerchiefs,  and  earn  bread  by  their  labour. 
But  at  the  end  of  the  dining-room  beside  Cuthbert's  window, 
some  preparations  were  begun  long  ago  for  the  erection  of  that 
conservatory  which  Miss  Dunlop  recommended  to  Harry — and 
to  her  mother's  consternation,  Miss  Dunlop  makes  the  cool 
inquiries  about  it,  and  presumes  they  do  not  intend  to  carry  it 
out  now.  Martha  answers  with  a  blank  gravity  which  she  has 
learned  to  assume,  to  cover  the  pang  with  which  she  mentions 
his  name,  that  other  more  important  wishes  of  Harry's  have 
to  be  carried  out  before  she  can  come  to  this ;  but  that  what 
he  intended  shall  be  done  without  fail,  and  that  it  only  waits 
a  suitable  time.  "  They  say  that  Heaven  loves  those  that  die 
young,"  says  Martha,  with  a  grave  simplicity,  "  yet  the  dead 
who  die  in  their  youth  leave  many  a  hope  and  project  unful- 
filled— and  few  have  been  so  full  of  projects,  and  had  so  little 
time  to  work  them  out." 

This  is  all — but  Miss  Dunlop,  bewildered  and  conscience- 
stricken,  dares  scarcely  speak  again  of  the  fickle  weakness  of 
poor  Allenders,  and  all  his  vain,  magnificent  aspirations,  and 
efforts  to  be  great.  She  has  a  vague  impression  that  she  has 
blundered  in  her  hasty  estimate  of  poor  Harry,  and  that  it 
was  indeed  because  his  sun  went  down  at  noon,  that  none  of 
his  great  intentions  ripened  into  success — for  no  one  ventures 
to  prophesy  failure  to  Harry's  purposes  now. 


HARRY    MUIR.  303 

And  Cuthbert  comes  when  he  can  spare  a  da}' — comes  to 
bring  them  news  of  the  tar-away  world  whose  vexed  and  trou- 
bled murmurs  they  never  hear,  and  to  receive  with  affectionate 
sympathy,  all  they  tell  him  of  their  own  plans  and  exertions. 
Cuthbert  is  admitted  to  the  work-room,  and  takes  out  Agnes 
and  Rose  to  their  nightly  walk,  upon  which  Martha,  who,  her- 
self actively  employed,  has  no  need  of  this,  insists  ;  and  Agnes 
leans  upon  him  as  on  a  good  and  gentle  brother,  and  there 
comes  a  strange  ease  and  repose  to  Rose's  heart  as  she  walks 
shyly  by  his  side  in  the  twilight,  saying  little,  but  preserving 
with  a  singular  tenacity  of  recollection  everything  the  others 
say.  And  Rose,  waking  sometimes  now  to  her  old  personal 
grief — a  thing  which  seems  dead,  distant  and  selfish,  under  the 
shadow  of  this  present  sorrow — recollects  that  Martha's  "  ca- 
pital "  is  from  Mr.  Buchanan — that  Cuthbert  is  his  favourite 
nephew,  and  that  there  may  be  truth  yet  in  the  story  which 
fell  like  a  stone  upon  her  heart.  But  Rose  only  speculates 
unawares  upon  these  individual  anxieties — they  seem  to  her 
guilty,  and  she  is  ashamed  to  harbour  them — yet  still  uncon- 
sciously she  looks  for  Cuthbert's  coming,  and  when  he  comes 
grows  abstracted  and  silent,  and  looks  like  a  shy,  incompetent 
girl,  instead  of  the  fair,  sweet-hearted  woman  into  whose  fuller 
form  and  maturity  her  youth  developes  day  by  day.  Yet 
Cuthbert's  eyes  are  witched  and  charmed,  and  he  has  strangely 
correct  understanding  of  every  shy,  half-broken  word  she  says  ; 
and  Rose  would  start,  and  wonder,  and  scarcely  believe,  in  her 
timid  unconscious  humility,  could  she  see  how  these  broken 
words  remain  in  Cuthbert's  heart. 


CHAPTER  LIIT. 

I  am  a  very  foolish,  fond  old  mao, 
Fourscore  and  upward. 

King  Leak. 

"  I  WAS  born  this  day  fourscore  and  five  years  ago,"  said  Dra- 
gon. '•  It's  a  great  age,  bairns,  and  what  few  folk  live  to  see ; 
and  for  every  appearance  that's  visible  to  me,  I  may  live  ither 
ten,  Missie,  and  never  ane  be  a  priu  the  waur.  I  would  like 
grand  mysel  to  make  out  the  hunder  years,  and  it  would  be 


304  HARRY    MUIR. 

a  credit  to  the  place,  and  to  a'  belonging  till't ;  and  naebody 
wishes  ill  to  me  nor  envies  me  for  my  lang  life.  Just  you 
look  at  that  arm.  Missie  ;  it's  a  strong  arm  for  a  man  o'  eighty- 
five." 

And  Dragon  stretched  out  his  long  thin  arm,  and  snapt 
the  curved  brown  fingers — poor  old  Dragon  !  Not  a  child  in 
Maidlin  Cross  but  could  have  overcome  the  decayed  power 
which  once  had  knit  those  loose  joints,  and  made  them  a  strong 
man's  arm ;  but  Dragon  waved  it  in  the  air  exultingly,  and 
was  proud  of  his  age  and  strength,  and  repeated  again  with 
earnestness :  "  But  I  would  like  grand  to  make  out  the  hun- 
der  year." 

Lettie,  now  a  tall  girl  of  fifteen,  stood  by  Dragon's  stair, 
arranging  flowers,  a  great  number  of  which  lay  before  her  on 
one  of  the  steps.  They  were  all  wild  flowers,  of  faint  soft 
colour  and  sweet  odours,  and  Lettie  was  blending  hawthorn 
and  primroses,  violets  and  cowslips,  with  green  sprigs  of  the 
sweetbriar,  and  here  and  there  an  early  half-opened  wild  rose 
— blending  them  with  the  greatest  care  and  devotion  ;  while 
Katie  Calder,  developed  into  a  stout  little  comely  woman-like 
figure,  stood  by,  looking  on  with  half-contempt ;  for  Katie  al- 
ready had  made  a  superb  bouquet  of  garden  flowers,  and  was 
carrying  it  reverentially  in  her  apron. 

"  It's  five  years  this  day  since  Mr.  Hairy  came  first  to 
Allenders,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  and  it's  mair  than  three 
since  they  laid  him  in  his  grave.  The  like  o'  him — a  young 
lad  !  and  just  to  look  at  the  like  o'  me  !" 

''  But  it  was  God's  pleasure.  Dragon,"  said  Lettie,  pausing 
in  her  occupation,  while  the  shadow  which  stole  over  her  face 
bore  witness  that  Harry's  memory  had  not  passed  away  even 
from  her  girl's  heart. 

"  Ay,  Missie,"  said  the  old  man,  vacantly ;  "  do  ye  think 
the  spirit  gaed  willingly  away  ?  I've  thought  upon  that  mony 
a  time  when  I  was  able  to  daunder  up  bye  to  the  road,  and 
see  the  farm ;  and  it's  my  belief  that  Mr.  Hairy  will  never 
get  right  rest  till  a's  done  of  the  guid  he  wanted  to  do,  and 
a's  undone  o'  the  ill  he  did — that's  my  belief.  I  think  myself 
he  canna  get  lying  quiet  in  his  grave  for  minding  of  the  work 
he  left  to  do  ;  and  if  there  was  ane  here  skilled  to  discern 
spirits,  he  might  be  kent  in  the  fields.  What  makes  the  lady 
sae  constant  at  it,  think  ye,  night  and  morning,  putting  to  her 
ain  hand  to  make  the  issue  speedier,  if  it's  no  that  she  kens 
about  him  that's  aye  waiting,  waiting,  and  never  can  enter  into 
his  rest  ?  " 


HARRY    MUIR.  305 

Lettie  let  her  flowers  fall,  and  looked  away  with  a  myste- 
rious glance  into  the  dark  shade  of  the  trees ;  and  the  vague 
awe  of  poetic  superstition  was  strong  upon  Lettie  still. 

"  Dragon,"  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  I  used  to  think 
I  heard  Harry  speak,  crying  on  me,  and  his  footstep  in  his 
own  room,  and  on  the  stair ;  and  all  the  rest  thought  that  too, 
for  I  have  seen  them  start  and  listen  many  a  time,  thinking  it 
was  Harry.  Do  ye  think  it  could  be  true  ?  Do  ye  think, 
Dragon,  it  could  be  Harry  ?  for  I  came  to  think  it  was  just 
because  he  was  aye  in  our  mind  that  we  fancied  every  sound 
was  him.-' 

"  Ane  can  never  answer  for  the  dead,"  said  the  poor  old 
Dragon.  "  Ane  kens  when  a  living  person  speaks,  for  ye  can 
aye  pit  out  your  hand  and  touch  them,  and  see  that  they're 
by  your  side  ;  but  I  pit  out  my  hand  here,  Missie — it's  a'  clear 
air  to  me — but  for  aught  I  ken,  an  angel  in  white  raiment 
may  be  standing  on  my  stair-head,  and  anither  within  my 
door,  laying  a  mark  in  the  Book,  yonder,  that  I  may  open  it 
the  night  at  ae  special  verse,  and  read  that  and  nae  ither.  How 
is  the  like  o'  me  to  ken  ?  And  you'll  no  tell  me  that  Mr. 
Hairy  winna  stand  by  the  bride  the  morn,  and  be  the  first  to 
wish  her  joy,  though  we  may  ne'er  hear  what  he  says." 

With  a  slight  tremble,  Violet,  putting  away  her  flowers, 
leaned  upon  the  step,  and  looked  again  into  the  darkening 
shadow  of  the  trees ;  and  Lettie  tried  to  think,  and  to  pray 
in  her  simplicity  that  her  eyes  might  be  opened  to  discern  the 
spirits,  and  that  she  might  see  Harry,  if  he  were  here.  But 
again  the  mortal  shrank  from  the  visible  immortality,  and 
Lettie  covered  her  eyes  with  a  thrill  of  visionary  fear. 

'•  Dragon,  look  at  Lettie's  flowers,"  said  Katie  Calder ; 
"  she  wants  to  put  them  on  the  table,  where  the  minister's  to 
stand,  instead  of  all  the  grand  ones  out  of  Lady  Dunlop's  ; 
and  I  never  saw  such  grand  flowers  as  Lady  Dunlop's,  Dra- 
gon." 

"  The  dew  never  falls  on  them^''  said  Lettie,  starting  to  re- 
turn to  her  occupation  ;  '-  and  if  you  were  in  the  room  in  the 
dark,  you  would  never  know  they  were  there  ;  but  I  gathered 
this  by  the  Lady's  Well,  and  this  was  growing  at  the  foot  of 
the  stone  where  Lady  Violet  sat,  and  the  brier  and  the  haw- 
thorn out  of  that  grand  hedge.  Dragon,  where  cC  the  flowers 
are  ;  and  if  I  put  them  on  the  table  in  the  dark,  the  wee  fairy 
that  Dragon  kens,  will  tell  the  whole  house  they're  there  ;  but 
Lady  Dunlop's  have  no  breath — and  mine  are  far  liker  Rose." 


306  HARRY    MUIR. 

As  Lettie  speaks,  some  one  puts  a  hand  over  her  shoulder, 
and  lifting  her  flowers,  raises  them  up  very  close  to  a  glowing 
radiant  face  ;  and  Dragon,  hastily  getting  up  from  the  easy- 
chair  on  his  stair-head,  jerks  his  dangling  right  arm  upward 
towards  the  brim  of  the  low  rusty  old  hat,  which  he  wears 
always.  It  is  only  persons  of  great  distinction  whom  Dragon 
so  far  honours,  and  Dragon  has  forgotten  "  yon  birkie,"  in  his 
excited  glee  about  the  approaching  wedding,  and  his  respect 
for  the  "groom." 

"  Very  right,  Lettie,"  said  the  bridegroom,  with  a  little 
laugh  which  has  a  tremble  in  it ;  '•  they  are  far  liker  Rose. 
And  will  you  be  able  to  come  to  the  gate  to-morrow.  Dragon, 
and  see  me  carry  the  flower  of  Allenders  away  ?  " 

"  But  ye  see,  my  man,"  said  Dragon,  eagerly,  shuffling 
about  his  little  platform,  as  he  looked  down  on  Cuthbert,  "  I 
never  had  her  about  me  or  among  my  hands,  when  she  was  a 
little  bairn  ;  and  if  it  was  either  Missie  there,  or  the  ither  ane, 
I  would  have  a  greater  miss ;  for  I've  gotten  into  a  way  o' 
telling  them  stories,  and  gieing  a  word  of  advice  to  the  bit 
things,  and  training  them  the  way  they  should  go ;  so  they're 
turned  just  like  bairns  o'  my  ain.  But  I  wish  Miss  Rose  and 
you  muckle  joy,  and  increase  and  prosperity,  and  that  ye  may 
learn  godly  behaviour,  and  be  douce  heads  of  a  family ;  and 
that's  the  warst  wish  that's  in  my  head,  though  you  are  taking 
ane  of  the  family  away,  and  I  never  was  married  mysel." 

And  Cuthbert,  responding  with  another  joyous  laugh,  shook 
hands  with  Dragon,  after  a  manner  somewhat  exhausting  to 
the  loose  arm,  of  whose  strength  the  old  man  had  boasted,  and 
immediately  went  away  to  the  waterside,  to  take  a  meditative 
walk  along  its  banks,  and  smile  at  himself  for  his  own  exuber- 
ant boyish  joy.  Serious  and  solemn  had  been  many  of  the 
past  occasions  on  which  he  had  visited  Allenders ;  and  now, 
as  the  fulfilment  of  all  his  old  anticipations  approached  so  cer- 
tainly, so  close  at  hand,  Cuthbert's  moved  heart  turned  to 
Harry — poor  Harry !  whose  very  name  had  a  charm  in  it  of 
mournful  devotion  and  love  ! 

The  sun  shone  in  next  morning  gaily  to  the  rooms  of  Al- 
lenders, now  suddenly  awakened  as  out  of  a  three  years'  sleep  ; 
and  Agnes  curls  her  bright  hair,  and  lets  the  sunshine  glow 
upon  it  as  she  winds  it  round  her  fingers,  and  with  a  sigh,  lays 
away  the  widow's  cap,  which  would  not  be  suitable,  she  thinks, 
on  Rose's  wedding-day ;  but  the  sigh  is  a  long-drawn  breath 
of  relief — and  with  an  innocent  satisfaction,  Agnes,  blooming 


HARRY    MUIR.  307 

and  youthful  still,  sees  her  pretty  curls  fall  again  upon  her 
cheek,  and  puts  on  her  new  white  gown.  It  is  a  pleasant 
sensation,  and  her  heart  rises  uuwares,  though  this  other  sigh 
parts  her  lips.  Poor  Harry  !  his  little  wife  will  think  of  him 
to-day. 

Think  and  weep,  but  only  with  a  serene  and  gentle  melan- 
choly ;  for  the  young  joyous  nature  has  long  been  rising ;  and 
Agnes,  though  she  never  can  forget,  laments  no  longer  with  the 
reality  of  present  grief  It  is  no  longer  present — it  is  past, 
and  only  exists  in  remembrance ;  and  Agnes  is  involuntarily 
glad,  and  will  wear  her  widow's  cap  no  more. 

And  Martha  is  dressing  little  Harry,  who  will  not  be  quiet 
in  her  hands  for  two  minutes  at  a  time,  but  dances  about  with  a 
perpetual  elasticity,  which  much  retards  his  toilet.  There  are 
smiles  on  Martha's  face — grave,  quiet  smiles — for  she  too  has 
been  thinking,  with  a  few  tears  this  morning,  that  Harry  will 
be  at  the  bride's  side,  to  join  in  the  blessing  with  which  she 
sends  her  other  child  away. 

And  Rose,  in  her  own  chamber,  in  a  misty  and  bewildered 
confusion,  seeing  nothing  distinctly  either  before  or  behind  her, 
turns  back  at  last  to  that  one  solemn  fact  which  never  changes, 
and  remembers  Harry — remembers  Harry,  and  weeps,  out  of 
a  free  heart  which  carries  no  burden  into  the  unknown  future, 
some  sweet  pensive  tears  for  him  and  for  the  home  she  is  to 
leave  to- day;  and  so  sits  down  in  her  bewilderment  to  wait 
for  Martha's  summons,  calling  her  to  meet  the  great  hour 
whose  shadow  lies  between  her  and  the  skies. 

And  Lettie's  flowers  are  on  the  table,  breathing  sweet, 
hopeful  odours  over  the  bridegroom  and  the  bride.  And  Let- 
tie,  absorbed  and  silent,  listens  with  a  beating  heart  for  some 
sign  that  Harry  is  here,  and  starts  with  a  thrill  of  recognition 
when  her  heart  imagines  a  passing  sigh.  Poor  Harry  !  if  he 
is  not  permitted  to  stand  unseen  among  them,  and  witness  this 
solemnity,  he  is  present  in  their  hearts. 


308  HARRY   MUIR. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

"  Behold  I  see  the  haven  now  at  hand 

To  which  I  mean  my  wearie  course  to  bend. 
Yere  the  maine  shete,  and  bear  up  with  the  land, 
The  which  afar  is  fairly  to  be  kend, 
And  seemeth  safe  from  storms  that  may  oflPend. 

Faeey  Queen. 

Agnes,  witli  her  relieved  and  lightened  spirits,  goes  cheerfully 
about  her  domestic  business  now,  and  has  learned  to  drive  the 
little  old  gig,  and  sometimes  ventures  as  far  as  Stirling  to 
make  a  purchase,  and  begins  to  grow  a  little  less  afraid  of 
spending  money.  For  some  time  now,  Agnes  has  given  up 
the  ''  opening  " — given  it  up  at  Martha's  special  desire,  and 
with  very  little  reluctance,  and  no  one  does  "  opening  "  now 
at  Allenders,  except  sometimes  Martha  herself,  in  her  own 
room,  when  she  is  alone.  These  three  years  have  paid  Miss 
Jean's  thousand  pounds,  and  one  of  Macalister's  four,  and 
Mr.  Macalister  is  very  happy  to  leave  the  rest  with  Miss 
Allenders,  who,  when  her  fourth  harvest  comes,  has  promised 
to  herself  to  pay  Mr.  Buchanan.  For  assiduous  work,  and 
Martha's  almost  stern  economy,  have  done  wonders  in  these 
years ;  and  the  bold  Armstrong  boasts  of  his  crops,  and  his 
cattle  now,  and  is  sometimes  almost  inclined  to  weep  with 
Alexander,  that  there  is  no  more  unfruitful  land  to  subjugate 
and  reclaim. 

But  before  her  fourth  harvest  time,  Martha  has  intimated 
to  Sir  John  Dunlop's  factor  that  it  was  her  brother's  intention 
to  make  an  offer  for  the  little  farm  of  Oatlands,  now  again 
tenantless,  and  Armstrong  does  not  long  weep  over  his  fully 
attained  success ;  though  Oatlands  has  little  reformation  to 
do,  compared  with  Allender  Mains.  And  Harry's  model 
houses  are  rising  at  Maidlin  Cross ;  sagacious  people  shake 
their  heads,  and  say  Miss  Allenders  is  going  too  far,  and  is 
not  prudent.  She  is  not  prudent,  it  is  very  true — she  ven- 
tures to  the  very  edge  and  utmost  extent  of  lawful  limits — 
but  she  has  never  ventured  beyond  that  yet,  nor  ever  failed. 

And  Harry's  name  and  remembrance  lives — strangely 
exists  and  acts  in  the  country  in  which  Harry  himself  was 
little  more  than  a  subject  for  gossip.  To  hear  him  spoken  of 
now,  you  would  rather  think  of  some  mysterious  unseen  per- 


HARRY    MUIR.  309 

son,  carrying  on  a  great  work  by  means  of  agents,  that  his 
chosen  privacy  and  retirement  may  be  kept  sacred,  than  of 
one  dead  to  all  the  business  and  labour  of  this  world ;  and 
there  is  a  certain  mystery  and  awe  about  the  very  house 
where  Harry's  intentions  reign  supreme,  to  be  considered 
before  everything  else.  So  strong  is  this  feeling,  that  some- 
times an  ignorant  mind  conceives  the  idea  that  he  lives  there 
yet  in  perpetual  secrecy,  and  by-and-bye  will  re-appear  to  reap 
the  fruit  of  all  these  labours ;  and  Geordie  Paxton  shakes  his 
head  solemnly,  and  tells  his  neighbours  what  the  "  auld  man  " 
says — that  Allenders  cannot  rest  in  his  grave  till  this  work 
he  began  be  accomplished  :  and  people  speak  of  Harry  as  an 
active,  existing  spirit — never  as  the  dead. 

It  is  more  than  a  year  now  since  Rose's  marriage,  and  not 
far  from  five  since  Harry's  death,  and  there  is  a  full  family 
circle  round  the  drawing-room  fireside,  where  Mrs.  Charteris 
has  been  administering  a  lively  little  sermon  to  Lettie  about 
the  extravagance  of  destroying  certain  strips  of  French  cam- 
bric (•'  It  would  have  cost  five-and-twenty  shillings  a  yard  in 
my  young  days,"  says  the  old  lady),  with  which  Lettie  has 
been  devising  some  piece  of  ornamental  work  for  the  adorn- 
ment of  Agues.  But  Lettie's  execution  never  comes  up  to 
her  ideal,  and  the  cambric  is  destroyed  for  ever ;  though 
Katie  Calder,  looking  on,  has  made  one  or  two  suggestions 
which  might  have  saved  it. 

"  For  you  see,  my  dear,  this  is  waste^''  said  Mrs.  Charteris  ; 
"and  ye  should  have  tried  it  on  paper  first,  before  you  touched 
the  cambric." 

"  So  I  did,"  said  Lettie,  nervously ;  "  but  it  went  all 
wrong." 

And  Rose  smiles  at  the  childish  answer ;  and  Mrs. 
Charteris  bids  Violet  sit  erect,  and  keep  up  her  head.  Agnes 
is  preparing  tea  at  the  table.  Martha,  with  little  Sandy 
kneeling  on  the  rug  before  her,  playing  with  a  box  of  toys 
which  he  places  in  her  lap,  sits  quietly  without  her  work, 
in  honour  of  the  family  party;  and  Uncle  Sandy  is  telling 
Katie  Calder  all  kinds  of  news  about  her  companions  in 
Ayr. 

Why  is  Lettie  nervous?  Cuthbert  at  the  table  is  looking 
over  a  new  magazine,  which  has  just  been  brought  in  from 
Stirling  with  a  supply  of  other  books  ordered  by  their  good 
brother ;  and  constant  longing  glances  to  this  magazine  have 
had  some  share  in  the  destruction  of  I^ettie's  cambric.     But 


310  HARRY    MUIR. 

Lettie  is  sixteen  now,  and  Agnes  thinks  she  should  not  be 
such  a  child. 

^'  Here  is  something  for  you,"  says  Cuthbert,  suddenly. 
"  Listen,  we  have  got  a  poet  among  us.  I  will  read  you  the 
ballad  of  the  '  Lady's  Well.'  " 


"  She  sat  in  her  window  hke  a  dreara, 

She  moved  not  eye  nor  hand ; 
Her  heart  was  blind  to  the  white  moonbeam, 
And  she  saw  not  the  early  morning  gleam 

Over  the  dewy  land ; 
iSTor  wist  she  of  aught  but  a  tale  of  wrong, 
That  rang  in  her  ears  the  dim  day  long, 

"Her  hair  was  like  gold  upon  her  head, 

But  the  snow  has  fallen  there ; 
And  the  blush  of  life  from  her  face  has  fled, 
And  her  heart  is  dumb,  and  tranced,  and  dead, 

Yet  wanders  everywhere — 
Like  a  ghost  through  the  restless  night, 
Wanders  on  in  its  own  despight. 

"But  hither  there  comes  a  long-drawn  sigh — 
A  thrill  to  her  form,  a  light  to  her  eye : 
Only  a  sigh  on  the  wind,  I  wiss ; 
Keep  us  and  guard  us  from  sounds  like  this! 
For  she  knew  in  the  breath,  for  a  mystic  token. 
The  words  of  the  rede,  by  that  graybeard  spoken. 

"The  bridal  robes  are  glistening  fair 
In  the  gray  eventide. 
Her  veil  upon  her  golden  hair. 
And  so  goes  forth  the  bride — 
Who  went  before  to  guide  astray 
All  wayfarers  from  this  way ; 
Whose  the  voice  that  led  her  hence, 
How  that  graybeard  came,  and  whence ; 
Known  were  these  to  her  alone. 
And  she  told  the  tale  to  none. 

"  Tlie  fountain  springs  out  of  the  earth, 

Nor  tells  what  there  it  sees ; 
And  the  wind  with  a  cry,  'twixt  grief  and  mirth, 

Alights  among  the  trees. 
She  sat  her  down  upon  the  stone, 

Her  white  robes  trailed  o'er  the  cold  green  turf, 

Her  foot  pressed  on  the  dreary  earth, 
Alone,  alone,  alone. 
'Not  an  ear  to  hear,  not  a  voice  to  tell. 
How  the  lady  passed  from  the  Lady's  Well. 


HARRY    MUIR.  311 


"Tlie  lady  sat  by  the  Lady's  Well, 

\\Tien  the  night  fell  dark  and  gray; 
But  the  morning  sun  shone  in  the  dell, 

And  she  had  passed  away. 
And  no  man  knew  on  the  coming  morrow 
Aught  but  the  tale  of  an  imknown  sorrow  ; 
And  nought  but  the  fountain's  silver  sound, 
And  the  green  leaves  closing  in  around. 
And  a  gi-eat  silence  night  and  day, 
Mourned  for  her  vanishing  away. 

'But  peace  to  thee,  Ladie,  lost  and  gone! 

And  calm  be  thy  mystic  rest. 
Whether  thou  dwellest  here  unknown, 
Or  liest  with  many  a  kindred  one, 

In  the  great  mother's  breast ; 
The  woe  of  thy  curse  has  come  and  fled. 
Peace  and  sweet  honour  to  our  dead !  " 


But  Lettie,  growing  red  and  pale,  dropping  the  paper 
pattern  which  Mrs,  Charteris  has  cut  for  her,  and  casting 
sidelong,  furtive  glances  round  upon  them  all  from  under  her 
drooped  eyelids,  trembles  nervously,  and  can  scarcely  keep 
her  seat.  When  Cuthbert  comes  to  the  end  there  is  a 
momentary  silence,  and  Martha  looks  with  wonder  on  her 
little  sister ;  and  Agnes  exclaims  in  praise  of  the  ballad,  and 
wonders  who  can  possibly  know  the  story  so  well.  Then  fol- 
lows a  very  free  discussion  on  the  subject,  and  some  criticism 
from  Cuthbert :  and  then  Martha  suddenly  asks  :  "  It  is  your 
story,  Lettie.  and  you  don't  often  show  so  little  interest. 
How  do  you  like  it  ?     Tell  us  ?  " 

"  I — I  canna  tell,"  said  Lettie,  letting  all  her  bits  of  cam- 
bric fall,  and  drooping  her  face,  and  returning  unconsciously 
to  her  childish  tongue ;  "  for — it  was  me  that  wrote  it,  Mar- 
tha." 

And  Lettie  slid  down  off  her  chair  to  the  carpet,  and  con- 
cealed the  coming  tears,  and  the  agitated  troubled  pleasure, 
which  did  not  quite  realize  yet  whether  this  was  pain  or  joy, 
on  Martha's  knee. 

Poor  Lettie !  many  an  hour  has  she  dreamed  by  the 
Lady's  Well — dreamed  out  grand  histories  for  "  us  all,"  or 
grander  still 


"  Resolved 


To  frame  she  knows  not  what  excelling  thing 
And  win  she  knows  not  what  sublime  reward 
Of  praise  and  honour " 


312  HARRY    MUIR. 

But  just  now  the  sudden  exultation  bewilders  Lettie ;  and 
there  is  nothing  she  is  so  much  inclined  to  do  as  to  run  away 
to  her  room  in  the  dark,  and  cry.     It  would  be  a  great  relief. 

But  the  confession  falls  like  lightning  upon  all  the  rest. 
Cuthbert,  with  a  burning  face,  thinks  his  own  criticism  the 
most  stupid  in  the  world.  Rose  laughs  aloud,  with  a  pleasure 
which  finds  no  other  expression  so  suitable.  Agnes,  quite 
startled  and  astonished,  can  do  nothing  but  look  at  the  bowed 
head,  which  just  now  she  too  had  reproved  for  stooping.  And 
Mrs.  Charteris  holds  up  her  hands  in  astonishment,  and  Katie 
clasps  hers,  and  says  that  she  kent  all  the  time.  But  Martha, 
with  a  great  flush  upon  her  face,  holds  Lottie's  wet  cheeks  in 
her  hands,  and  bends  down  over  her,  but  never  says  a  word. 
Children's  unpremeditated  acts,  simple  words  and  things  have 
startled  Martha  more  than  once  of  late,  as  if  a  deeper  insight 
had  come  to  her  ;  and  now  there  is  a  great  motion  in  the  heart 
which  has  passed  through  tempests  innumerable,  and  Martha 
cannot  speak  for  the  thick-coming  thoughts  which  crowd  upon 
her  mind. 

That  night,  standing  on  the  turret,  Martha  looks  out  upon  the 
lands  of  AUenders — the  lands  which  her  own  labour  has  cleared 
of  every  overpowering  burden,  and  which  the  same  vigorous  and 
unwearied  faculties  shall  clear  yet  of  every  encumbrance,  if  it 
please  God.  The  moonlight  glimmers  over  the  slumbering  vil- 
lage of  Maidlin — over  the  pretty  houses  of  poor  Harry's  impa- 
tient fancy,  where  Harry's  labourers  now  dwell  peacefully,  and 
know  that  their  improved  condition  was  the  will  and  purpose  of 
the  kindly-remembered  dead.  And  the  little  spire  of  Maidlin 
Church  shoots  up  into  the  sky,  guarding  the  rest  of  him,  whose 
memory  no  man  dares  malign — whose  name  has  come  to 
honour  and  sweet  fame,  since  it  shone  upon  that  tablet  in  the 
wall — and  not  one  wish  or  passing  project  of  whose  mind, 
which  ever  gained  expression  in  words,  remains  without  fulfil- 
ment, or  without  endeavour  and  settled  purpose  to  fulfil. 
And  Martha's  thoughts  turn  back — back  to  her  own  ambitious 
youth  and  its  bitter  disappointment — back  to  the  beautiful 
dawn  of  Harry's  life — to  its  blight  and  to  its  end.  And  this 
grand  resurrection  of  her  buried  hopes  brings  tears  to  Mar- 
tha's eyes,  and  humility  to  her  full  and  swelling  heart.  God, 
whose  good  pleasure  it  once  was  to  put  the  bar  of  utter  power- 
lessness  upon  her  ambition,  has  at  last  given  her  to  look  upon 
the  work  of  her  hands — God,  who  did  not  hear,  according  to 
her  dimmed   apprehension,  those    terrible  prayers  for  Harry 


HARRY    MUIR.  313 

which  once  wrung  her  very  heart,  gave  her  to  see  him  pass 
away  with  peace  and  hope  at  the  end,  and  has  permitted  her — 
her,  so  greedy  of  good  fame  and  honour — to  clear  and  redress 
his  sullied  name.  And  now  has  been  bestowed  on  Martha 
this  child — this  child,  before  whom  lies  a  gentle  glory,  sweet 
to  win — a  gracious,  womanly,  beautiful  triumph,  almost  worthy 
of  an  angel — and  the  angels  know  the  dumb,  unspeakable  hu- 
mility of  thanksgiving  which  swells  in  Martha's  heart. 

So  to  all  despairs,  agonies,  bitternesses,  of  the  strong  heart 
which  once  stormed  through  them  all,  but  which  God  has 
chastened,  exercised,  at  length  blessed,  comes  this  end.  Har- 
vest and 'seedtime  in  one  combination — hopes  realized,  and 
hopes  to  come ;  and  all  her  children  under  this  quiet  roof, 
sleeping  the  sleep  of  calm,  untroubled  rest — all  giving  thanks 
evening  and  morning  for  fair  days  sent  to  them  out  of  the 
heavens,  and  sorrow  charmed  into  sweet  repose,  and  danger 
kept  away.  But  though  Martha's  eyes  are  blind  with  tears, 
and  her  heart  calls  upon  Harry,  Harry — safe  in  the  strong 
hand  of  the  Father,  where  temptation  and  sorrow  can  reach 
him  no  more — the  same  heart  rises  up  in  the  great  strength  of 
joy  and  faith,  and  blesses  God,  who  knoweth  the  beginning 
from  the  end — who  maketh  His  highway  through  the  flood 
and  the  flame — His  highway  still,  terrible  though  it  be — who 
conducts  into  the  pleasant  places,  and  refreshes  the  failing 
heart  with  hope ;  and  the  sleep  which  He  gives  to  His  be- 
loved, fell  sweet  and  deep  that  night  upon  the  wearied  heart 
of  Martha  Muir. 


THE    END. 


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